


Bella Bella Barton

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Clint Barton, Bad Parent Barney, Barney Barton - Freeform, Barney's got Issues, Basically Raven Darkholme, Bella Barton - Freeform, Bella needs a hug, Cause she's a mimic, Child Abandonment, Clint Feels, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint's Niece, Deaf Clint Barton, Dyslexia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kinda Parent Clint, Mutant Bella, Mutant Powers, Mutants, Protective Clint, Uncle!Clint - Freeform, dyslexic clint, more tags as we go, no spoiler tags!, one big happy dysfunctional family, the avengers are one big happy family, without the blue skin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avengers are just sitting down to some victory shawarma when a message comes through from JARVIS that there's someone demanding entry to the tower, someone who will only identify herself as Bella.</p><p>Clint bolts so fast he tips his chair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Shawarma became a tradition after that first victory. Battles fought and battles won, it didn’t matter where they were or what shape they were in - as long as everybody was capable of eating without the aid of a straw they all piled into the latest form of Stark transport and headed out for a feast of Arabic delicacies, tables groaning under the weight of tabbouleh, fattoush, hummus, and taboon bread. Sometimes they were bleeding and sometimes they were bruised, and sometimes every one of them felt defeated, but they were together and the world was safe and that was what counted.

They’d built a weird sort of little family together, the Avengers, at least after that very first fight, but Clint mostly didn’t like to think about that one. He’d been sure he’d finally reached the end of his rope that night knowing his handler was dead, knowing that it was his fault, but Natasha had managed to keep him alive long enough to learn that SHIELD had brought Coulson back. Fury’s lies had put a serious wrench in the works, but the senior agent was smart enough to see through them, and once he’d gotten his brains sorted he’d come marching back into the tower with a vengeance, righting a world that was upside down and whipping all of them into shape within a matter of weeks. Taking point on the comms he directed the newly unified team through stranger and stranger battles – Hydra, AIM, and alien alike – but as much as Clint loved a good mission with the man in his ear, it was the after he liked best.

A full belly, people he cared about, the calm, quiet moments. Battered and aching and filthy but proud that he’d done something worthwhile, actually happy for the first time in a very long time. He was a better man with SHIELD, with the Avengers, with _Coulson_ , and he was enough of a man to admit it.

And ok, so maybe he was being a little more obvious than he’d been before Coulson had died, but hey, near-death ( _actual_ death) situations could do that to a guy right? So what if he actually visited the man’s office on a daily basis instead of just lurking in the vents overhead, and so what if he doodled cartoons in the margins of his paperwork in an effort to earn a chuckle? So what if he fell asleep against the man’s shoulder on the bench seat of the quinjet, or laughed a little more honestly than he used to?

So what?

He’d done most of that stuff before, hadn’t he? And it wasn’t like Coulson was taking the hint anyway, so he wasn't hurting anyone. Nat liked to argue that he was hurting himself, but after living for weeks, _months_ thinking that he’d killed the man he was head over heels for, Clint was perfectly content to take what he could get. He’d learned a long time ago how to live on scraps, how to make the barest praise last. Hell, maybe he’d always been in love with the man, and sure, it hurt a little that he obviously didn’t love Clint back the way he’d like, but he was still there. He’d promised once that he’d always come for Clint when he needed him, and he’d needed him a year ago, barely able to fend off the suicidal thoughts and the passive apathy he’d fallen into after his handler’s death. That said something, didn’t it? That even as disoriented and shaky as he’d been after his resurrection he’d fought his way back to him and Nat, had even gone through Fury to come for them.

And he was still here, a whole year later (hell, it had already been a year), sitting right beside him at the table, glaring at Stark over dishes of olives and stuffed dates as the billionaire blew straw wrappers in his direction with varying rates of success.

Clint wasn’t sure he’d earned this, this group of misfits that had somehow come together and made a team, who trusted him and believed in him and relied on him when things got tough. It had taken a long time for him to feel like he had a place, like he’d finally become something that wouldn’t slowly eat away at his insides until there was nothing left but it had happened, and he couldn’t help but smile as his eyes flicked around the table, stopped on each of the faces of his friends.

“Everything all right specialist?” Coulson asked quietly, raising an eyebrow at Clint’s quiet mood, and his grin broadened.

The agent never had dropped the SHIELD title Clint held, the one that sent a rush of warmth through his belly whenever he heard it.

“Yes sir,” he admitted, a contented laugh hidden behind the words. “I think it is.”

“Better than all right!” Tony scoffed across the table, his mouth half full. “That was fantastic - in and out! The New York fights are never so easy!”

Around him the rest of the team made muffled sounds of agreement, loose and relaxed in their seats. It was true that the worst of the battles they faced often took place in what was now considered the Avengers’ territory, and this one had gone down just a few blocks away from the Tower itself. Clint was of the opinion that the phenomena occurred because only the ballsiest villains dared to attack where the team had the home-field advantage, but today had yielded up nothing more than your average stress-cracked grad student misappropriating lab equipment to try to do some damage. Stark and Banner had dealt with the baby robots while Steve and Natasha talked the kid down, Clint watching from on high to make sure he didn’t have more competent help waiting in the wings.

Seemed like it was stretching it to call something so ridiculously simply a victory, but it was nice to eat a meal without rubble in his hair or blood on his teeth.

Scooping a giant bite of hummus into his mouth and licking his fingertips, Clint settled back on his chair and tuned in to the conversation across the table. Steve was still adjusting to modern times, even after a few years out of the ice, and he was having trouble understanding the alarmingly frequent mental breaks American students suffered. Tony championed the rigorousness of professional programs valiantly while Bruce argued the need for mental health services, and when Steve flicked a glance in his direction Clint barked a laugh.

“Don’t ask me,” he protested, holding up his hands. “I didn’t make it past the fourth grade.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Coulson cut in immediately, interrupting whatever Steve was about to say in a voice that was slightly sharper than his typical calm tenor. “You…”

He didn’t get to finish.

Good, because Clint had… mixed reactions to talking about his accomplishments, and praise usually made him squirm.

Not so good because it was Stark’s suit blaring an alarm that cut his handler off.

Frowning, Tony picked up one of the gauntlets he’d stripped out of, a red light blinking rapidly until he tapped at a few buttons and brought up a projection screen that shimmered an eerie blue.

“Talk to me Jarvis,” he demanded, poking at the lines of code hanging in the air as Clint slid his chair back from the table.

He had an issue with iridescent blue ok?

Sue him.

“Sir, someone is requesting entrance to the Tower,” the AI’s voice explained. Difficult to rile, the computer actually sounded distressed, enough that everyone at the table snapped to attention. “She appears to be quite upset.”

“Well who is she?”

“She refuses to say Sir. She reports that she needs to be let in, but is having difficulty answering any questions. She… appears to be quite upset.”

A stillness ringed the table and Clint felt a shiver ripple down his spine. The AI didn’t stutter, didn’t stumble, and Clint had never heard him repeat himself like that. Quite upset, hell Jarvis seemed quite upset himself.

“Bring up the security feed,” Tony ordered, tapping at the keyboard on his glove. “Who got around the…”

The screen shimmered and rearranged itself to reveal a blue-green image of the back door of the tower, the door next to Tony’s underground garage that led directly up to the top suites. No guards or fancy scanners, it was fenced in and a fairly well-kept secret but there she was - a slim, sobbing girl with dark hair mussed and matted, clothes torn and dirty as she sagged against the wall, pleading with the speakers to let her inside. The camera caught her from behind, didn’t show her face, but Jarvis’ voice crackled over the comm, muffled and full of static as he tried to calm the young women.

“Miss, if you please, you’re in need of medical attention,” the AI tried again, a thread of desperation in his tone. “If you could give me your name, I can put you in contact with…”

“No!” she yelped, “No don’t! You can’t, you can’t tell them, just… just please! You have to let me in, I don’t… I can’t…”

“Miss, I can’t let you in without your name,” Jarvis replied soothingly, but the girl flinched and made a high-pitched, keening sort of sound.

“I can’t, I can’t,” she sobbed. “Please! I need to talk to him, please! Just tell him I’m sorry! I never believed him, but he wouldn’t let me… just tell him it’s Bella and I’m sorry!”

Clint was out the door before his chair hit the tiles.

**AVAVA**

Phil Coulson had watched Clint Barton move for many years. He knew exactly how flexible the archer was, how capable of grace, and he knew how still he could be for endless hours when called on. He’d seen him be clumsy and he’d seen him trip over his own feet a time or two, and once he’d seen him move with the terrifying, dead, robotics of the brainwashed.

He had never seen him disappear as fast as he did from that table.

He didn’t understand, but it was like that name had lit a fire in his pants – _Bella_ – and no, Phil didn’t really want to think about why that might be. Why one second the man was sitting calmly beside him, smiling around at his team, relaxed and happy, and then the next splitting so fast that he’d disappeared before his chair had even hit the floor.

“Um…” Tony mumbled, staring between the empty space beside Phil and the empty doorway. “Was it something he said?”

Rolling his eyes Phil quickly got to his feet, heading for the exit even as Tony minimized Jarvis’ projections, minimizing the image of the woman sobbing at the Avengers’ back door. Clatter and rumble followed him as the rest of the team gathered up their bits and pieces – Steve his Shield, Thor his hammer, Bruce helping with the extra bits of Tony’s suit – and then he was out on the sidewalk, eyes finding Natasha’s bright red hair in the melee of New York foot traffic.

“He’s gone,” she said as he reached her side, still scanning the streets. “Shall I…”

“No,” Phil determined, turning to find one of Stark’s unmarked SUV’s pulling up to the curb. “If he’s gone to ground you won’t find him. We’ll go back to the Tower – maybe the woman knows something we don’t.”

Natasha frowned, clearly unconvinced, but she nodded and followed him back to the vehicle, climbing inside after the rest of the team. It was a bit of a tight fit with Tony and Thor electing to ride instead of fly, but Phil couldn’t deny that the squeeze was almost comforting in that moment, packed in as he was with an elbow in his ribs and his suit jacket wrinkling. With Clint abruptly in the wind it helped to settle him just a little, to have Natasha close and the rest of the team to hand. He was preoccupied enough by the archer as it was, but he hated when the man pulled these types of stunts. Clint going black was the one thing above all else that could send Phil Coulson’s blood pressure through the roof.

Realizing that his heart was still tripping in his chest, that he was scrubbing thoughtlessly at the scar beneath his dress shirt, Phil dropped his hand and took a minute to breathe, to settle the wheels that spun too fast at the back of his mind.

“So,” Stark mused, breaking the moment as Happy maneuvered them quickly through mid-afternoon traffic. “Who’s Bella? Smart money on an old girlfriend?”

Stiffening minutely, Phil set his jaw and glared while beside him Natasha’s fingers twitched. It was a little bit of a cheap shot, even for Stark, and Steve went so far as to lean around the passenger seat to frown at the man.

“I do not know,” Natasha replied in her quietest, deadliest tone, her gaze lost and far away. “He’s never mentioned anyone called Bella.” Blinking, she turned away from the window and narrowed her eyes at Tony. “And Clint doesn’t date, Stark. So don’t be an ass.”

Tony snorted, flicking a strange sort of scowl in Phil’s direction before leaning forward to peer through the SUV’s blackened windows. “Either way,” he said as the vehicle rolled through the gates and into the entrance of the car park, “We’re about to find out.”

“Stay focused,” Phil commanded, speaking up at last in a voice that was cold and hard, uncharacteristically grim even for his _Agent Coulson_ persona. “We don’t know who she is or why Barton bolted.”

“Aye aye Agent,” Tony quipped, casting him a mock salute as he slipped into his suit’s gauntlets. “Set phasers to stun, got it.”

“Tony, don’t…” Steve warned, but then the car was in park and Natasha was leading the pile out, all of them marching toward the elevator that led back up to ground level and the door that let into the Tower.

Too tightly wound to tolerate the enclosed space, even after ten minutes crammed in beneath Thor’s broad shoulders, Phil turned the team to the stairs by taking them himself. Sprinting up two at a time until he pushed out into the sunlight and the tiny garden area all fenced in around the back, the air was warm and just a little damp on his face, unsettling as the rushing sounds of New York filtered in on him again after the deadened hush of the underground garage. There was only about fifty yards between them and the Avengers’ private entrance, supposedly hidden and protected well enough to keep out the riff-raff and any paparazzi, but there she was despite all that, her back to them as she pounded the door with her fist and spilled a litany of pleas at Jarvis through the little speaker mounted beside it. Phil couldn’t quite make out the words but it sounded like the same begging Tony’s suit had played for them back at the restaurant; pleas to be let in and to tell him she was sorry.

He thought it was safe to assume that the _him_ she was asking for was Clint.

“Hey!” Tony barked, prompting a violent flinch from the female. “What the hell are you doing to my…”

The question was choked off and the Avengers all staggered to a halt when the woman… the _girl_ , finally turned to show them her face.

“Jesus,” Tony breathed, and Phil felt himself shiver as cold, heavy dread stuck him to the pavement. “She’s just a kid.”

“I wasn’t breaking in!” she yelped, and it came out like a harsh, painful hiccough. “I wasn’t… I mean, I’m not…”

“Aw, take it easy,” Tony said, relaxing into his calmer, cockier self as he took a step forward and raised a hand. “You haven’t done anything worse than yell at my AI. You…”

“No!”

Jerking sharply, the girl hit the wall and slid to the ground, pulling her knees in tight to her chest and turning away. The tilt of her chin, the way they were all now standing over her showed off the black and blue that spilled across her cheekbone like watercolors, the swollen, bloody split in her lower lip, and every one of them drew up short, breath hitching in their chests.

“I’m sorry,” she choked, shaking her head with eyes closed tight, her entire body trembling. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… I wasn’t gonna… I just need to find him and they wouldn’t let me in and I know he’d mad but I didn’t mean it!”

“Whoa, hey, relax!” Tony tried again, suddenly awkward and uncomfortable and unsure. “We’re going to help you out ok? We’re not going to hurt you.”

Phil glanced at Natasha, for once entirely at a loss for what to do. He wasn’t exactly great with children, having little skill and even less experience, but the look the assassin shot him said that she wasn’t either, and Tasha was good at everything. Or at least she was good at _pretending_ to be good at everything…

So now what?

Luckily for everyone, the Captain chose that moment to step up, and Phil knew that if _anyone_ was good with kids it was Captain America.

“No one’s going to hurt you miss,” the man said softly, crouching down in front of her and propping the shield against his knees so she could see the gleaming star. “You know who I am, right? I’m Captain America. You’re safe here. Can you tell me where your parents are sweetheart?”

For just a moment they thought it had worked, Steve’s gentle cajoling and good-boy face calming the girl into silence, but that face quickly paled when she promptly burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started a new one while I wait for chapters to be recovered from a bad hard drive :P
> 
> Enjoy! Send me nice, long reviews to cheer me up ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-graphic references to off-screen child abuse directed toward multiple characters. It's not detailed or described, but if this is a trigger for you approach with caution.

It took longer than he thought it would to get back across town to the tower. The Shawarma place wasn’t that far away, just a couple of blocks, and Clint was a champ at parkouring it up fire escapes and over rooftops, but if he’d stopped long enough to think it through catching a lift with Thor or Iron Man might have been the smarter option.

He hadn’t stopped to think though had he? He’d just panicked and _moved_ , and now he was out of breath and holding the stitch in his side and squeezing himself up and over and between the wrought iron of Tony Stark’s fence, dropping to the pavement like a stone and choking on his own heart when he found the Avengers crowding over a shaking little figure on the other side.

“Bella,” he gasped, and then he was crossing the lot and shoving roughly through his knot of teammates, snarling at them to get the hell out of his way and dropping to his knees in front of the terrified, shaking little girl who had frozen with a look of sheer terror on her face.

“Uncle Clint?” she stammered, eyes huge and damp and round, and then without any more warning than that she lunged, throwing herself into his arms and clutching tight, sobbing into his chest and holding on like she was never going to let him go again.

“Woah, hey, I gotcha,” he murmured, half-automatic with shock. “I gotcha darlin,’ you’re safe. Shh, hush now.”

It had been years, three, maybe four, but his body caught up before his brain did, remembered what to do as he pressed his face to her hair and held her tight, rocked her slowly back and forth as she cried. Behind him he could sense a stunned silence coming from the others but he couldn’t care, his mind too busy processing his panic and slowly turning it to gut-sick horror. The girl in his arms was thin and lanky, felt brittle and too light, and her clothes were stiff and filthy. Barely fourteen, like most kids her age she was mostly made up of long, skinny limbs, all elbows and knees, but Clint recognized the stretched, wobbly disproportions of malnutrition and the signs of neglect in the state of her hair and the clarity of her skin. He was struck by the sudden thought that she hadn’t grown enough since he’d last seen her, that instead she seemed to have fallen apart, the time showing on her face the way it should never show on a child.

And oh god, her _face_.

“Oh baby, what happened to you?” he asked in a near-heartbroken murmur, guiding her back and cupping her face gently in his hands. Her lip was swollen and bloody and her cheek bruised, and when he brushed his thumb gently over it to wipe the tears away she flinched. “What happened to my Bella?”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she whimpered and shook her head minutely, leaning in again and fisting the vest of his uniform in her hand as best she could. The harsh, shuddering sobs had ceased but the tears still ran down her face, leaving dirty tracks behind them as she trembled like a leaf against his chest. Exhaustion was slowly creeping in on her - and if Clint had to guess, hunger and dehydration too - so for a minute he let her hide, from him and from herself as she pressed her face against his chest and sucked in cracked, hitching little breaths.

“Easy,” he whispered, holding her close with one hand and stroking her hair with the other. “Gonna be ok now darlin,' I promise.”

A shudder ran through her and instead of reassuring her like he’d meant it to, his words seemed to make things worse, made her hang her head and shake it miserably.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, clinging even tighter. “Uncle Clint, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to…”

“Hey, hey, no,” he shushed, taking her by the arms and guiding her back again, trying to get a look at her face. “You don’t…”

Clint words trailed off as cold dread settled into the pit of his stomach, his attention suddenly drawn to the awkward way she was holding her arm, still and close to her side, the way she’d flinched when he’d taken her elbow.

“Bella?” he asked quietly, but the girl ducked her head and looked away, tried to tug out of his grip when he took her wrist gently in his hands. A tremble and a whine of pain was enough to confirm his suspicions but he touched her cheek anyway, brought her chin up until she met his gaze.

“Let me look sweetheart,” he urged, and then he was drawing up her sleeve as carefully as he could and fighting down the urge to vomit when he found stiffness and swelling and bruises underneath. Behind him he heard Steve gasp, heard Tony curse under his breath, and then Bruce was swiping his keycard and disappearing quickly inside, looking a little green around the gills.

“We gotta get you to a doctor baby,” he said quietly, carefully, because Clint knew, he _knew_ the kind of reaction he was going to get.

Sure enough, Bella jerked away from him, eyes bright with fear even as she bit her lip against the pain.

“No!” she yelped, scrambling off his lap and getting as far away as she could - not far given Clint’s grip on the extra fabric of her muddy, scuffed-up jacket. “No, it’s... I can’t! I only just…”

“Tripped and fell down the stairs?” Clint asked quietly and Bella froze, tears on her cheeks and fear in her eyes. “Me and your dad used to fall down the stairs a lot too, baby girl,” he said quietly.

And god damn Barney, if he’d gone the same way as Bella’s granddaddy…

“He didn’t mean to,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and so quiet Clint almost missed it, even with his Stark-tech hearing aids. “Uncle Clint, he didn’t…”

Clint’s stomach fell.

“Maybe he didn’t _mean_ to darlin,” he said quietly, clamping down hard on his anger, “But he did and he never should have. And I’m gonna make sure he knows, you hear me? I’m gonna make sure he…”

“He’s gone.”

Closing his eyes in the face of Bella’s squeaked, miserable confession Clint reached desperately for his composure, devoted all his control to keeping his grip loose around her elbows and his mouth silent, even with all the curses he knew sitting heavy on his tongue.

“How long?” he asked quietly, because, fuck, that was the Barney he knew even if he’d thought his brother had finally turned it around, even if he’d thought…

“Nine days,” she choked. “He said he’d be back but he didn’t come and I couldn’t find him…”

“Ok,” he breathed, making his decision and turning all Barney-related thoughts off. “Ok. Listen to me baby, I’ll find your dad, all right? But right now I need to take care of you. We’ve got our very own doctor upstairs and she’s super nice. She won’t ask you any questions you don’t want to answer, ok? But we need to get you looked at. That wrist needs to be splinted and I want your cheek X-rayed too.”

Tears welled up in the little girl’s eyes and before long they overflowed, slipping silently down her cheeks as a shudder ran over her. Slumping forward into his arms, she leaned heavily against his chest as the whole thing finally caught up with her.

“Uncle Clint,” she whimpered, her eyes closed as her shoulders began to shake. “Hurts.”

“I know Bella Bella,” he whispered, getting his feet underneath him and scooping her up in his arms. “Gonna get you all fixed up, I promise.”

**AVAVA**

“I knew he had a brother,” Stark said quietly as they followed Clint down the hallway toward the Avenger’s private elevator, the little girl hanging limp in his arms. “Did you know he had a niece?”

Grimly, Phil shook his head. He’d been just as surprised as the rest of them when the kid had called Clint _uncle_ and leapt into his arms. He’d never seen a picture, never heard her name, and he’d thought he’d known all there was to know about his asset - the important parts at least. Clint had shared so much with him over the years - it cut a little that he’d never even mentioned the little girl he clearly cared so much about.

“Clint does not like to speak of his past,” Natasha said, her eyes sharp as she looked past the man in question who marched along ahead of them, scanning for threats. “Not his family and not his brother. For a time things were better, but…”

“But not anymore.”

Showing a remarkably uncharacteristic level of restraint, Tony shut his mouth as they caught up with Clint, waiting for the elevator doors to open. Slipping inside, Phil subtly herded the man to the opposite side of the small car, keeping himself between the archer and the rest of the team. It was instinctual but still strange, despite the fact that he’d been doing it for years - keeping Clint safe. As a SHIELD agent the man had hated medical attention more than anyone Phil had ever met - had since the day he’d brought him in with a bullet lodged in his thigh - so Phil did his best, stood protector over his agent and tried to make things as painless and trauma-free as possible.

It only made it that much harder now - not knowing what to do.

“Doc’s on standby Clint,” Stark informed, tapping at his phone before tucking it into his pocket, gauntlets inexplicably gone. “Hawkeye protocol’s in place.”

“Thanks Tony,” Clint said quietly, but his tone was flat, disengaged, distracted. The girl in his arms was silent, her eyes mostly shut as she breathed fast and shallow, and Clint seemed entirely incapable of taking his own eyes off her.

Silence reined for the rest of the short trip up to the top of the tower, until the doors slid open and Clint was striding out into the hallway toward the sliding glass doors that walled off the Avengers’ personal medical wing. Stark had spared no expense and the floor contained all the most up-to-date technology; more specialized staff and better surgeries than even SHIELD headquarters could boast. Ducking ahead of them, Steve grabbed the door and swung it open, holding it for Clint and the rest of them with a worried, anxious look marring his smooth features. It was the look he wore when he was confused, horrified and disappointed with the modern world, and Phil wasn’t so sure that this time he didn’t absolutely understand.

Following after Clint, the group was directed into the first examination bay where, instead of placing his niece down on the recovery bed, Clint levered himself up, keeping her on his lap and cradling the elbow of her bruised arm carefully in his hand. She’d hunched in on herself as soon as they’d entered the hospital and was darting fearful glances around the little room, keeping her face pressed against Clint’s chest and refusing to look any of them in the eye. Natasha stood beside him, guardians at the edge of the curtain the served to wall off the area while Steve took up a position of military-rest across from them. Tony hovered awkwardly for a minute before dropping into the visitor’s chair, clasping his hands between his knees and watching the little girl intently, frowning when she flinched at his sudden movement. Phil was just about to suggest that they all clear out and give the pair some space when Dr. Daniella Pavlova came marching in, sleeves rolled up and head down as she flipped briskly through a stack of paperwork a good two inches thick.

“All right Hawkeye, what did you do this… time?”

Catching sight of the stranger in their midst, her eyebrows rose a bit before she handed off Clint’s file to the nurse who had followed her in, shooing him back out again with an elegant flick of her wrist.

“Well,” she said lightly, putting on a smile that was only the slightest bit strained. “Who do we have here?”

“Hey doc,” Clint sighed, his shoulders slumping. “This is my niece… Isobelle.”

“Hello Isobelle,” she replied, crouching down a bit to smile at her and offer her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you. My name’s Dr. Pavlova, but you can call my Danny if you like.”

For a minute the girl stared at her like she was crazy, and to Phil’s surprise Clint didn’t make a move to encourage a reaction, just let her sit with it until slowly she reached out with her good hand, shook warily and hesitantly before withdrawing lightning-quick.

“Well, I can tell you’re a brave little girl,” Daniella smiled before dropping her voice to a falsely-secretive stage whisper. “Much braver than your Uncle Clint. He wouldn’t talk to me for _months_ , can you believe that? I bet you’ll talk to me though - I’m not so scary am I?

Frowning, the girl stayed silent but eventually shook her head, prompting Clint to reward her with a kiss to the side of her head.

“No ma’am.”

“And polite too,” Daniella smiled, standing from her crouch. “Aren’t you just your uncle’s niece!”

Stepping to the counter, she faltered slightly as she noticed - apparently for the first time - the rest of them standing around like a devoted yet miserable sentry, arched another eyebrow as pointed and classily as Natasha had ever managed. Pulling a pair of blue late gloves from a sterile box she tugged them on, then turned back to Clint and looked at him seriously over Isobella’s head.

“What am I looking at Hawkeye?” she asked in Italian, the only language other than English that she shared with Clint.

“Sprained wrist,” he replied, shifting his arms when the girl squirmed in his lap. “Possibly fractured. The cheek needs an X-ray too. Dehydration, malnutrition, emotional and physical exhaustion. I don’t…”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Clint cleared his throat, stumbled over the words.

“She came from Iowa,” he tried again. “I don’t know how long it’s been since she…”

Phil’s stomach turned and he felt his body go cold as he flashed back through the years to a thin, fearful, black and blue Clint who flinched when someone raised their hand or their voice, who couldn’t remember his last good meal and who’d stood under his first real shower in months for so long that he ran even SHIELD’s water heaters dry.

Caught off guard, but apparently better at hiding it than the rest of them, Dr. Pavlova straightened, nodded firmly.

“Well, Miss Isobelle, I think we should get you up in this bed and take a look at you,” she said with a smile. “Does that sound all right?”

Swallowing, eyes wide, Isobella looked up at Clint with tense shoulders, relaxing only after he nodded and shifted them off the bed to resituate. Sending each of the team a significant look, Daniella shooed Tony out of his chair, Steve away from the counter.

“All right gentleman, let’s clear the room,” she said, nodding to each of them. “Ms. Romanova…”

For a minute shuffles and muttering reigned, but Phil seemed stuck, unable to look away as Clint lay his niece down in a bed that was far too big for her body, so much smaller than she’d looked in JARVIS’ projections. How they had ever mistaken her for a grown woman he would never know.

“Whatever she needs, understand?” Tony said insistently, voice low and gruff in his ear as he closed one hand tightly around Phil’s bicep, laid the other on the doctor’s shoulder. “Anything she wants.”

“Of course Mr. Stark,” Daniella conceded, shepherding them subtly past the curtain. “Now, if you please…”

“What? Oh. Yeah. Come on, Phil,” the genius muttered, and Phil almost flinched because Tony had that look on his face as he pulled him toward the door, that look that threatened lavish gifts and personalized inventions. “Let’s let the doctor work.”

Sensible advice, and coming from Stark of all people, but it still took his hand on Phil’s arm to drag him out of there, his last glimpse that of a pale little girl with a tear-stained face and an archer with worry written in all the lines of his body for any and all to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think guys - Love Ya!


	3. Chapter 3

One of Clint’s happiest memories was of the day Isobelle was born, even if it didn’t start that way.

Shelley had called him when her water broke, even before she’d called Barney, and neither of them had said his name as Clint drove them to the hospital. The nurses had assumed he was the father and suited him up in a set of blue scrubs before he could protest, complete with booties and face mask, and the next thing he knew he was crouched beside the hospital bed, letting Shelley grip his hand and scream into his ear while doing his best to apologize for who his brother was and the fact that he wasn’t there. It was one of the most nerve-wracking experiences he’d ever had, and he’d been doing mercenary work for a few years at that point, but then there had been a thready, high-pitched cry and there was a baby being placed in his arms, tiny and pink and more fragile than anything he’d ever touched.

He’d been the first person to hold her, the first person kiss her forehead, and by the time he’d placed her gently into her mother’s waiting arms he was in love. Shelley had taken one look at his face and asked him then and there to be the baby’s godfather, and even with as much self-loathing and lack of confidence as Clint had had in himself, he’d agreed without hesitation.

Watching her now, sitting in a big white hospital bed that made her look vulnerable and washed-out and miserable, he knew letting her go had been the biggest mistake of his life.

“I’m sorry Uncle Clint,” she whispered, a single tear rolling down her bruised cheek and her hands twitching, the pain in her wrist stopping her from signing. “I didn’t…”

He wanted to stop her. To hush her, to tell her it wasn’t her fault and it _wasn’t_ , but Clint was selfish and a part of him needed to know how this had happened.

They’d always been close - her whole life growing up in Iowa. Clint had joined up with SHIELD after she was born, willing to let Coulson bring him in because it took him away from Ronin, even from Hawkeye. Agent Barton was a legitimate identity, had fewer enemies and stayed closer to home, and as Agent Barton he didn’t feel nearly so ashamed of himself when he went to see his niece. He visited her between jobs, called her, sent her little presents and postcards from all over the world, and always came back in time every year to celebrate her birthday. He’d been there for her four years ago when she’d been ten and Shelley had died, held her at the funeral and then at the wake while Barney drowned his own pain in the bottom of a bottle. He’d stayed almost eight months after that, until he’d been sure that Barney had his shit together and was capable of taking care of her, and at the time he hadn’t thought his brother resented the help.

He should’ve known better.

He was a Barton after all.

Less than three weeks after he’d said goodbye Clint had been publicly named an Avenger and Barney had disappeared, taking his daughter with him. Clint had called and written without reply, gone out to the old farmhouse to find it empty and boarded up. He sent letters to every safe-house and hidey-hole Barney had but he never heard back, never got the phone call he waited for. While he’d expected as much from his brother, he hadn’t thought his niece would be so quick to cut him out of her life, and at the time he’d made the mistake of letting those assumptions break his heart.

He had issues, he knew that. He knew he wasn’t as confident as he liked to look, knew that his past stuck to him like static-filled plastic wrap, that he was still ashamed of it when it came to Isobelle. He never should have let himself believe that her silence was a reflection of what their relationship meant to her, but he still didn’t know _what happened_ …

“He wouldn’t let me call you,” she whispered, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her jacket and drawing up her knees, making herself small. “I asked, but he always said… he said you didn’t care anymore. He said you were too busy being an Avenger, that you didn’t want to help or come see us…”

“Oh baby girl,” Clint murmured as his heart sank, getting to his feet to pull her against his chest and stroke her hair. “I never stopped. I never stopped loving you, never stopped looking for you. I wrote you so many letters… But it’s not your fault. You hear me? None of this is your fault. Your dad, he…”

“He hates me,” the little girl choked, a tremble running though her. “Because I look like mama. Because I’m…”

“Hey!” Clint broke in, stepping back to take her face in his hands and pull her up to meet his eyes, his voice firm and gently scolding. “There is _nothing_ wrong with you. It doesn’t matter who you look like, or what you can do. You’re still my Bella Bella, right?”

The girl nodded but didn’t speak, still upset.

“Right?” he asked again, a little more loudly this time, and when she still didn’t answer him he jumped forward and started tickling her, all down her sides and behind her knees, careful of her arm until she was wriggling and giggling all over the bed.

“Say Uncle,” he demanded, grinning down at her. “Say Uncle!”

“Uncle, Uncle!” she laughed. Catching her breath she settled back against the pillows, staring at the curtains around her bed. “When’s she comin’ back?” she asked, and Clint frowned at the obvious anxiety behind the question.

Since Tony had activated the hospital’s Hawkeye protocol, Danny hadn’t stuck around very long. She and Clint had gotten to know each other fairly well since he’d moved in to the Tower and they’d eventually found what worked, a style that kept Clint from panicking or bolting before he’d been properly treated. Standard procedure involved as few questions as possible, a quick once over and a blood draw, and then retreat, giving him a chance to settle his nerves, and that was exactly what she’d done today. Outside of a frown when she’d taken Isobelle’s wrist in her hands she’d kept her thoughts to herself, but Clint didn’t doubt that she’d have bad news for him.

“She’ll be back soon,” he said quietly, sitting down again and dragging his chair closer to the bedside. “Does your arm hurt sweetheart? Too much I mean?”

“ ‘M just tired,” she mumbled, slouching against the pillows.

“Then take a nap darlin.’ I’ll be right here.”

It was gut-wrenching how fast she fell asleep. That she trusted him so much, trusted him to be there when she woke up… it was everything he’d thought he lost with her. She turned a little, whimpered quietly, but for the most part she was down for the count, and didn’t even stir when Clint brushed the hair back from her face, didn’t wake when Daniella slipped back into the room.

“What do you think doc?” Clint asked, his voice thick.

“Just from the blood work?” she sighed. “I think your initial assessment was right on the money. Chronic malnutrition, moderate dehydration, exhaustion…”

Tensing when she paused, Clint turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised defiantly. He knew what she was about to say, what she was about to ask, and he really didn’t want to get into it right now. It was the last thing Bella needed and it wasn’t important - not when mentioning it could trip the little girl into a spiral of confusion and shame and self-hate.

“Clint, did you…”

“Yes,” he interrupted sharply, ignoring the way Danielle jerked at his tone. “I knew. She knows. But she doesn’t like to talk about it and it’s… it’s not important, ok?”

Watching him carefully, the woman considered, nodded.

“Understood,” she agreed. “I’m more worried about her wrist anyway - I just wanted to make sure you were aware.”

“I’m aware. She’ll be ok?”

“She will,” Daniella nodded. “I’d like to get her a little more stable before we move her for X-rays - I don’t think anything’s broken so a good night’s sleep is likely to do more good than harm at this point. If you can wake her up for a minute I’ll get her on an IV drip to start getting her hydrated. I’ll give her a single dose of a mild painkiller too. I’m going to go grab a splint, try to get her to drink this.”

Clint was surprised when she handed him a bottle of apple juice out of the pocket of her lab coat. He didn’t know why - Danny was good like that, she bribed _him_ with chocolate milk - but the juice would get some sugar into his niece without being too hard on her stomach. Brushing her hair back from her face, he squeezed her good shoulder, felt her jump but waited until she’d blinked the fear out of her eyes before he spoke.

“Hey sweetheart,” he murmured. “Can you wake up a little for me?”

“Don’t wanna,” she mumbled, and Clint chuckled, but she sat up anyway, pushing upright again.

“Danny brought you some apple juice,” he said, cracking the plastic top and handing her the bottle. “Go slow, ok?”

The girl nodded and sipped carefully, and when Clint was sure she wasn’t going to chug the thing he sat back down on the edge of the bed. For a few minutes they were quiet, Bella drinking her juice and him just watching, until she finally handed the bottle back two-thirds empty and stared out through the curtains at the rest of Stark’s contained little hospital bustling by.

“Uncle Clint?” she asked tentatively, voice wobbly enough to catch his attention. “What happens now?”

 _Shit_.

He knew what she meant, but he wasn’t sure either of them were ready to fight their way through that conversation.

“Right now we’re gonna get you fixed up ok?” he replied. “Danny’s gonna come back and put a splint on your wrist so you can sleep. She needs to put you on an IV too, but it’ll just be a quick pinch, I promise. She’s really good, and she’s practiced on me lots.”

“I’m not _scared_ ,” the little girl huffed, rolling her eyes, and yeah, _there_ she was.

“Course not,” Clint grinned, leaning over to knock their shoulders together. “Anyway. She’ll give you some stuff to get you hydrated and maybe something to make your wrist feel a little better, and then you can sleep. Then tomorrow she’ll do a couple x-rays, see if you need a cast or anything, and we’ll get you a bath and some breakfast.”

He could see the gears turning in her head, knew she was about to insist he keep going, tell her what was going to happen _after_ that, but Danny saved him the fumbled answer by taking the opportunity to pop back in dragging a rolling table behind her.

“Hey there sleepyhead,” she smiled, pulling the table up to the bed. “How you feeling?”

“Ok.”

Danny glanced at Clint, hiding a smile. She was used to Hawkeye’s short and simple answers, and she clearly wasn’t surprised to be getting more of the same from his niece.

“Well that’s good to hear,” she replied. “I’m gonna get set up here really quick and then we’ll take another look at that wrist, all right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Now Isobelle, you’re a little dehydrated so we’re gonna put an IV in ok?” Coming around the side of the bed, Danny shooed Clint out of the way and reached up on her tiptoes to hang a bag of clear saline on one of the poles tucked behind the back of the bed. “It’s just going to be a quick pinch, right here on the back of your hand.”

“Uncle Clint said.”

“Yes, but your Uncle Clint’s a big baby,” the doc whispered, winking slyly as she snapped on a pair of gloves and picked up a needle. “Ok, one, two, three…”

“You did it on two,” Isobelle accused, and Clint laughed.

“Yeah, she does that too,” he confessed as Danny attached the tubing to the cannula and started the fluids. “But it didn’t hurt, did it?”

“No.”

“Well that’s good,” Danny cut in, fiddling with her buttons and tubes. Honestly Clint never paid much attention - it was all a little over his head. “I’m going to give you a little medicine in here too Isobelle - it should make you feel a little better, and you might get a little tired, but as soon as I put this splint on you can go to sleep ok?”

Biting her lip, Isobelle nodded and lifted her wrist for the doctor’s inspection, reaching out blindly with the other. Clint’s heart thumped against the inside of his chest, and that surge of achy _anger-sadness_ only got worse as he let her clutch at his hand, watched her flinch and whimper with pain as Danny carefully manipulated her arm into the aluminum braces and Velcro straps of the splint. The doctor frowned at her reaction and opened up the drip on her IV once she’d finished, speeding up the dispensation of the pain meds, and having been let go all taped in to her little metallic arm, Isobelle immediately slumped back against the pillows, letting Clint fuss around her and tug them into place, pulling the blanket up over her lap.

“Uncle Clint?” she murmured, eyes already beginning to flutter shut.

“Go to sleep baby,” he said gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be right here till you wake up. Promise.”

“K,” she breathed, and then just like that she was gone, out like a light.

Clint didn’t know he’d been holding in a breath until he let it go - a great, heaving sigh that sent a tremor through his entire body, shook his shoulders and sent a chill rushing over his skin. Leaning forward, he put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands, tried to get a rein on the anger that came sweeping back in now that Isobelle was asleep. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder and wondered just how bad he must look for Danny to touch him, to break Hawkeye protocol and do anything that wasn’t strictly necessary.

“She’ll be all right Clint,” she said. “She just needs to be fed up and looked after a bit. A lot like you did, from what I understand.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” he replied. “At all. I might… I might need Dr. Tyler’s number again.”

He should already have it. Danny had given it to him often enough, but Clint still wasn’t entirely ok with going to a shrink, even though SHIELD’s newest doc was actually a good friend of Danny’s and a fairly ok guy.

“I’ll write it down for you,” she nodded. “It might be a good idea for her to see him, especially since I’m getting some pretty strong murder vibes off of you right now.”

Clint swallowed, bit down on the hot, overwhelming anger he’d pushed away until now, the anger he hadn’t wanted his niece to see.

“She didn’t fall down the stairs,” he said finally, growling through clenched teeth.

“Is that something I need to report?”

Sighing, Clint shook his head, pushed to his feet.

“I’ll take care of it. Hell, it won’t even matter until I find the bastard and Barney was always good at disappearing.”

Reaching back, he dimmed the overhead light that was shining down on Isobelle’s face and turned back to Danny, who was holding out a small card with a number printed on the back.

“You might think about seeing him yourself,” she said gently. “This is obviously important to you. Hard for you.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he said shortly, jamming the card into one of his cargo pockets. “And let’s keep the other thing between us, huh?”

“Of course,” she nodded. “Whatever you say, Hawkeye. But go. Get a shower and some coffee and then come back. You’re right off an Avenger’s fight, and no offense, but you look like shit.”

“Thanks doc,” he snorted, jerking his chin at his sleeping niece. “She won’t wake up before I get back?”

“With the day she’s had? Not a chance. That pain killer will probably keep her comfortable at least until tomorrow morning.”

“Good. That’s… that’s good.”

“Clint. _Go_. I’ll watch her until you get back.”

And that was it.

Enough.

His futzing limit.

Nodding to the doctor he strode past her, marched towards the glass doors and the posh little lobby beyond where the Avengers were all grouped up, waiting. Crossing the floor, he pushed through with his brain running a mile a minute because he knew he’d messed up and this was the result. Years, years of being neglected and berated and hated, and Clint should’ve known. Should’ve known because Shelley was gone and because Barney was a Barton, a Barton who wasn’t good for a damned thing without their person, that one person who could come into their lives and make a difference, make them change. Make them want to be better men.

He’d thought Isobelle would be enough to take her mother’s place, thought…

He’d thought wrong.

Marching past the rest of his team, Clint stormed out into the hallway and put his fist through the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3<3<3 Review Meeeeeee!! <3<3<3
> 
> Much love!


	4. Chapter 4

His ears were ringing. 

Things were... bubbly, hazy, like he'd stuck his head under water, the Avengers calling his name and asking questions and he knew he could hear them but he _couldn't_... 

Heart pounding, hand throbbing, Clint stared at his battered, bleeding knuckles and the fist-sized hole in the drywall like they belonged to someone else, like he was hovering somewhere outside of his body, looking over his own shoulder as the anger raced through him hot and wet and viciously, bitingly painful. 

_Clint?_

_Clint!_

_What happened?_

_Is she ok?_

_Clint?_

_Clint..._

And then suddenly he was calm. Or... not calm, but sort of... numb. Deadened. Because this was Barney wasn't it? This was hurt and betrayal and _guilt_ , and it was broken bones and black eyes and _hating_ someone with everything you had and still loving them because no matter how hard you tried you couldn't stop...

In other words it was nothing new, nothing Clint hadn't lived through a dozen times before. 

Nothing for it but to start picking up the pieces. 

Anyway, he was good at that by now. 

"I can't..." he choked, licking his lips and swallowing against the tightness in his throat before trying again. "I can't do this right now. Guys, I..." 

His words created a sudden hush, a sudden space, like a heavy curtain being dropped all round him, and when he finally blinked and turned around the Avengers had fallen silent, had all taken a step back and stood poised, ready. They wore masks of worry, of confusion and anxiety and they were waiting, waiting for him to speak, to explain but in that moment he couldn't do it. He couldn't take on that responsibility, couldn't accept their emotions along with his own and anyway he couldn't really feel anything at all. 

Shaking his head, he took a step back, away from the protective little half-circle they formed around him. 

"I can't do this right now." 

Bolting for the elevators, he missed the pointed looks between them, the questioning glances sent Coulson's way and the frown of disappointment Natasha cast at him when the senior agent stood still, apparently stuck fast to the floor. It didn't matter – any other time he'd probably be begging silently for attention, his body language pleading for a little tactile reassurance after something like this, but as it was he had things to do and places to be, a mission that included a shower and coffee and getting back to his niece as quickly as he could. 

Hitting the button for his personal floor, Clint stared blankly through the doors until they slid shut, felt his stomach lurch despite the smooth ascent of the car. Stumbling out again when it stopped, he ignored JARVIS' quiet inquiries about his health and whether he required assistance, instead focusing on getting through one little task at a time. 

Start the shower. 

Strip. 

Aids on the counter, body under water... 

It all seemed like too much, too difficult to do because his arms were like lead, every movement slow and heavy like he was pulling his body through tar. He didn't feel present as he scrubbed off what little dirt and grime had lingered from the day's battle, the acrid stench of adrenaline sweat that clung to his skin. Instead he watched it as if he were watching a movie, a passenger in the back of his own head, but his body seemed to be doing a good enough job taking care of itself so he didn't agonize over it, instead just let it happen. 

In five minutes he'd washed, rinsed, and repeated for good measure, though it felt like a lifetime, and he wasn't surprised to find clean clothes and a towel waiting for him folded neatly beside the sink. Any other time Tasha might have climbed in with him, let him cry on her shoulder while she washed his hair, but today she must have sensed that he needed the space. He still appreciated the gesture though, and slipping into a pair of sweats and a ribbed tank top was a hell of a lot better than being strapped into his leather tac vest. 

At least now he felt like he could breathe. 

Mostly anyway. 

The smell of coffee helped. 

Grabbing a pair of socks from the dresser as he passed through his bedroom, he followed his nose to the kitchen where he found Nat filling a thermos with strong fresh-brewed caffeine, an extra mug already waiting on the counter. 

"Thanks Tasha," he said softly, his voice hoarse, but she only nodded, watched him with calculating eyes as he drained half the mug in one go and she finished doctoring the thermos with milk and sugar. 

Pushing it into his hands, she handed him a little gym bag he didn't remember owning, but it was worn and fraying at the edges and heavier than he'd expected it to be. Raising an eyebrow he looked inside, found it stuffed full with his Starkpad and charger, his cell phone, an extra pair of hearing aids and a water bottle, even a book – things that would make it easier for him to bunker down and stay in one place for a while if he needed to. Hell, there were even a couple sandwiches wrapped in cellophane in there, for when he inevitably overcame his guilt-and-grief-stricken nausea and needed something to pick at. 

It was a simple thing, not all that surprising really, but in the moment, with his nerves scraped raw and his head in a tangle, it meant the world to Clint. 

Putting everything down, he sidled up to her silently, eyes on the floor, and drew her into a hug, slow and shy and warm. A part of him wanted to stay there, _needed_ to stay there, calm and quiet and protected, but he couldn't and they both knew that. 

"Go look after her," she said, pushing him back gently. "I'll write your after-action report. If you need anything at all, I'll be waiting." 

He probably should have said something but the knot in his throat was too big, so instead he nodded, picked up the bag and the thermos of coffee and headed in his sock-feet toward the door, not even bothering to stop for a pair of shoes.

He'd just stepped into the elevator when she called a warning after him. 

"Tell Stark I made you a sandwich and you'll wake up without your eyebrows." 

The doors closed on a halfhearted chuckle.

**AVAVA**

It was three am when Phil finally gave up on sleep that night. He'd tossed and turned for hours without relief, too hot and then too cool when he kicked off the covers. Eventually he had to cede to the wakefulness, wandered into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Stark had insisted on building him a full suite when he'd moved in to the Tower, and while the opulence still made him feel strangely guilty after a lower-middle-class childhood and the memory of all the bickering he and Tony had done, he appreciated the ability to sequester himself when he needed to.

He should've stayed with the team when Natasha had taken off after Clint, he knew that. Truth be told he'd wanted to go after the archer himself - and if Nat's face had said anything she'd wanted the same thing - but confusion, nervousness, maybe even a little hurt had stopped him, stuck him to the floor as the elevator doors closed on Clint's pale, blank face. With a small scoffing sound Nat had strode off down the hallway herself, taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator to come back down, and then Phil was running almost as quickly as Clint had. 

Locking his floor as soon as he'd reached it, he didn't bother checking in on Bruce, didn't bother contacting Fury or reviewing the after-action reports with Stark and Rogers. Instead he tore off his tie, stripped out of his suit in favor of sweats and spent the afternoon moving from task to task, distracted and irritable and anxious. He caught himself pacing more than once, blatant at first and then more casually, files in his arm that went unread as he tried to excuse the behavior. He didn't know why he was so shaken by the appearance of a battered little girl on the Avengers' doorstep, by Clint's reaction, but he'd thought that a few hours alone would be enough to process it. An incorrect assumption, with hours having past and unease still humming beneath his skin. 

Pouring himself a mug of coffee, he sat down at the kitchen island and indulged in a little self-reflection, considering the strange uncertainty and hesitation that sat so heavy and foreign inside his chest. He was not a man given to questioning himself or his decisions, never had been even as a child, and he was certainly not a man to... waiver in his affections. 

He liked Clint – he'd admitted that to himself a long time ago. It was a little harder to deny when he'd gone charging off after a mad god with only one goal in mind, when his first thought after being brought back from the dead was a hope and a prayer that he'd been successful in that goal – that Clint had been retrieved, that he was safe and that someone had told him it wasn't his fault. 

Phil had never met anyone quite like the blonde archer before. He supposed it was fairly telling that even when he'd been dating Audrey he would've rather spent time with Clint. And yes, he probably should've said something, when he'd finally come back. Easy to say now, when at the time he'd still been weak and wobbly, terrified of the reception he might receive. In the end Clint had panicked and leapt into the air ducts without a word, but eventually he'd come back, slipping into Phil's arms and hanging on tight, his shoulders shaking in silent sobs that neither of them acknowledged. He'd muttered nonsense apologies for what felt like hours, reminded Clint again and again of his promise to always come back for him until he'd fallen asleep on the couch. 

When he'd woken up they hadn't talked, but things had been different since. Their relationship had never been as formal as those Phil maintained with his other assets, but it felt lighter, easier, happier than it had before Phil's death. They spent time together outside of SHIELD, outside of missions, and began balancing the line between friends and coworkers. Clint's flirting became more blatant, more pointed, but Clint flirted with everyone, and he never really made a move. Natasha liked to call Phil on the fact that he'd never made one of his own, but he had his reasons. Without any real assurance that Clint was actually interested, he wasn't going to take the chance of ruining what they already had – a working supervisory relationship, a friendship, and a trust that was rare and fragile and had taken years to build. 

No – if anything were to come of this it would be on Clint's terms, not Phil's. 

But that certainly didn't mean he couldn't check up on the man. 

"JARVIS?" He called, quietly in deference of the hour. "Could you tell me how the others are doing?" 

"Certainly Agent Coulson," the AI's voice responded, matching Phil's hushed tone. "Sir and Captain Rogers are in the communal living room with Dr. Banner. Sir proposed a Star Trek marathon to keep Dr. Banner's mind occupied, but monitors indicate that all three are still distracted." 

"Any sign of a Code Green?" 

"No sir. Dr. Banner's vital signs are steady. Thor is in his quarters speaking with Dr. Foster and Agent Romanov is in stairwell 26B-North." 

Phil frowned, pushed aside his coffee. 

Clint and Natasha weren't all that different – they both tended to tuck themselves away when they needed to think, Clint somewhere high and Natasha somewhere dark and narrow. 

Not that different from himself either apparently. 

"Is she alright?" 

A moment of silence passed before JARVIS replied, no doubt checking in with Natasha. 

"Agent Romanov politely suggests that you make your way to the medical wing instead of concerning yourself with her," he responded finally, and Phil snorted a laugh. 

"Sure she did," he muttered. "Thank you JARVIS." 

"Of course sir." 

Tapping his fingers against the counter, he debated asking after Clint, asking is he was even awake before he decided that it didn't matter. He needed to see for himself that the man was alright, and besides, it was a bit of a rule for Strike Team Delta that no one woke up in the hospital alone. 

If what that rule really meant was that Clint never woke up in the hospital alone, well that was between him, Natasha, and their gods. 

Rinsing his mug in the sink, he refilled it and added milk and sugar until it was pale and sweet, carrying it with him as he slipped his feet into a pair of soft house shoes and took the elevator back down to the med floor. The lights in the hallway were dimmed but he could still see a splash of white on the far side of the doors, spackling that stood out in stark contrast against the sage green wallpaper. He couldn't stop himself from staring – Clint rarely made such Tony-like displays of emotion and he took good care of his hands. Punching a hole in the wall was a strong testament to just how shaken he was himself. 

Shaking his head, he let himself in through the glass doors, nodded in recognition of the two nurses who hailed him as he passed. The entire floor was dimmed and hushed but there was still a small number of staff milling about, busy and alert and no doubt well-paid for it. Moving past them silently, he slipped through the curtain that had been drawn around the first medical bay and felt his throat tighten at what he found behind it. 

Clint was curled up in the corner of the couch that ranged against the edge of little room, on the opposite side of the bed and out of the way of Daniella's instruments and workspace, all the medical equipment. His knees were drawn up tightly against his chest, socked feet balanced on the edge of the cushions, and he was reading aloud from a battered hard copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. The little girl in the bed was curled up just as tightly, turned toward her Uncle even in sleep, her splinted wrist held protectively against her chest, and the little frown that lingered around the corners of her mouth perfectly matched the one on Clint's as he stumbled his way determinedly through Lewis Carroll's made up words. 

It wasn't widely known that Clint had been practically illiterate when he'd come in to SHIELD. Growing up in a circus instead of a school had made traditional learning difficult, and his dyslexia certainly didn't help. Phil had known they were finally making progress the day Clint had slunk into his office and admitted his struggles shamefacedly, trusting him with that much of his own vulnerability. Phil had thanked him for his honesty and promptly offered him an appointment with a tutor, assuring him that he wasn't the only agent who'd come through the organization who needed a little extra help. The archer had thrown himself into the classes with dogged determination and had far exceeded Phil's expectations of him, but he still struggled, and he could read the other man's frustration in the crease between his brows, the way his taped knuckles tightened around the cover of the book. 

"Clint?" 

Jumping despite Phil's soft, gentle tone, Clint blinked like he was coming out of his own anesthesia, reacquainting himself with his surroundings as his eyes darted over to his niece and his shoulders slumped in relief. 

"Thanks boss," he sighed, setting the book aside and reaching for the coffee mug he offered. 

Phil handed it off, watched him take a long, slow sip before he sat down beside him, clasped his hands between his knees and traced his eyes over the little girl sleeping in the bed before them. The splint, the bruising, the matted hair and dirty, torn clothes made something hot and nasty bubble in the pit of his belly, a much stronger reaction than he was used to. His habit was to calmly put a plan into action to right a wrong, not to dwell over it in anger and bitterness. Inaction, emotion was confusing to him, concerning as his strange, flickering anxiety came back, swelling inside his chest. 

"In my head it was never hard." 

Pulled out of his introspective spiral, Phil turned to look at Clint who was clutching tightly at his coffee mug, staring straight ahead with eyes that were far away. 

"It was never hard for me to justify killing my brother." 

Making a small derisive sound in the back of his throat he looked away, drained the mug in one hard swallow and set it aside before pulling his knees back in again, wrapping bare arms around his legs. He looked terribly young like this – loose clothes, hair fluffy and tousled in ten directions, face soft with uncertainty and hurt. 

"Then he found Shelley and things were better, and then Isobelle came and I thought _finally_. Finally, he'll be ok. We'll _all_ be ok."

Huffing, he shook his head.

"Should have known better." 

"This isn't your fault Clint," Phil said carefully, but that had always been the wrong thing to say to the younger man, and he shrugged it off disbelievingly. 

"I promised her I'd find him ya know?" he said, thrusting his chin toward the girl in the bed. "But I don't think I can forgive him for this. If I do find him, this time I think I might actually do it." 

"That's a problem for another day," he said quietly. "Get some rest. I'll make sure you're up before she is." 

He expected resistance. An argument at the very least, an excuse, even a flat-out refusal. What he didn't expect was for Clint to nod, slouch low on the couch cushions, and tuck himself in to Phil's side, lean against him heavy and warm and already halfway asleep. Unsure what to do with his hands but certain that he'd start stroking the man's hair or patting his biceps if he didn't find something else to do with them, he picked up the discarded book and began to read until Alice was home again and Clint had been lulled to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So February is a month of shameless, unapologetic self-promotion for me (and truth be told I might do it again soon). Just because you guys are awesome and I love you and you cheer me up enormously!! So leave me a review if you enjoyed the read, and then head on over to try out something else - I write for Teen Wolf and Marvel (and psst... even Buffy and Leverage over on fanfiction.net). I love hearing from you so shout it from the rooftops friends - embrace your inner fan!! <3


	5. Chapter 5

Clint woke up slowly, quietly, not that that was unusual in and of itself. When he was at home, when he was safe, he often lingered in bed for hours, enjoying the slow stretch and the warmth and the splash of early morning sunlight through the windows. In familiar surroundings, when things were calm, he was just as likely to stay in bed as to get out of it. Any other time he was zero to sixty in two seconds flat, which was why it was strange to find himself sighing, smiling, suffused with a strange sense of contentment as he woke up in a strange position with a slight crick in his neck and fingers carding softly through his hair. 

His smile turned to a pout when those fingers stilled, tightened and then withdrew, smoothly and calmly like they'd planned it. 

"I was just about to wake you." 

Shit. 

That was _Coulson_ he was cuddled up with, whose lap he's been using as a pillow, and that was the beeping of a pulse monitor and the sting of antiseptic in his nose and that meant medical and that meant... 

_Bella_. 

Lurching upright Clint nearly went toppling off the couch, would have if Coulson hadn't reached out and snagged him by the arm, caught him tightly around the elbow. 

"Easy," he admonished quietly, holding on until Clint stilled obediently beneath his hand. "She's fine. Slept through the night, but she's starting to get restless." 

Catching his breath around his heart, which had somehow jumped into his throat, Clint nodded, licked his lips anxiously as he waited for the surge of adrenaline to fade again. Coulson kept his fingers tight around his bicep, the firm grip grounding him until his breathing evened out again and the man seemed to determine that he wasn't going to bolt or trip into panic. 

"What time is it?" he asked croakily, scrubbing a hand over his face once he'd been let go. 

"Almost seven," Coulson replied, checking his watch. Getting slowly to his feet, he brushed off his knees, putting himself as right as he could in sleep sweats and an old t-shirt. "I'm going down to check in with the team – I'll send Daniella your way." 

"Right," he mumbled, distracted now as he got to his feet, moved to the side of the hospital bed and brushed the hair back from his niece's face. "Thanks boss." 

He didn't hear Coulson leave. Didn't want to think about last night, when the man had come into the room a little pale and a little mussed and as agitated as Clint had ever seen him, only to sit down on the couch beside him and listen quietly as Clint spilled his sins from his mouth like poison. 

And maybe it was Clint's fault that he'd been acting so unlike himself. 

He was the one who'd curled up against him in a near dissociation, unable to breathe the truths he'd admitted to and pinning Coulson to the couch, but he didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about the fact that the man had stayed, that he'd let Clint cling without acknowledging the weakness, instead picking up the book he'd abandoned in near-frustration and filling up the spaces between them with the calm, smooth voice that had been in his ear for so long, the voice that was all trust and reliability and safety. 

Didn't want to think about it. 

There was... 

He had... 

Aw, forget it, it was too much to deal with. 

For right now anyway. 

Because right now there was a little girl in front of him who needed his full attention and he'd already promised himself that he was going to fix this, that he was going to make up for what he'd done and what he hadn't done and all the things that had happened after – whether that meant he had to kill his brother some day soon or not. 

"Come on Bella Bella," he said softly, squeezing her good shoulder lightly. "Time to wake up sweetheart." 

"Don't wanna," she mumbled, rolling and brushing at him ineffectively, and then it must have all come rushing back to her because she flinched sharply and then went stock still, cautiously opening her eyes. "Uncle Clint?" 

"Hey darlin," he replied, biting back the pain her fear and her physical reactions caused in him. 

He recognized those movements, those reactions, the instinct to draw in on yourself and make yourself small, harder to hit. 

"Have a good sleep?" he asked, and was immediately swamped with a relief that threatened to buckle his knees when she nodded, smiled a little as she wiggled around under her blankets and sat up. 

"Hurts less," she said, touching the splint on her arm. 

"That's probably the medicine," he said, glancing up at the empty drip bag hanging from the IV pole. "Danny should..." 

"Knock knock!" 

Chuckling, Clint turned and waved said doctor in. 

"Good morning Miss Isobelle," she greeted with a bright smile, as cheerful as she ever was. "How are you feeling today?" 

"Ok," she replied, and this time it was a little stronger and a little firmer, more confident. She didn't duck her head or shy away as much, and that brought all the feelings flooding back in on him again, because that was the Bella he knew. "Hungry." 

Danny laughed, checked the pockets of her lab coat and came up with another bottle of juice, orange and banana this time. 

"Here you go," she said, cracking the lid off for her. "Drink that up, and I'll get you through the x-ray machine as quick as I can ok? Then we'll get you a bath and your Uncle Clint can find you some breakfast." 

Bustling around, she traded some small talk with Clint but they mostly kept a a surreptitious eye on the girl in the bed, who seemed content to sip her juice and wait. Danny took down the IV, carefully removed the needle from the back of Bella's hand, made some notes on a chart posted at the end of the bed, and it was all settling somehow because it was familiar. Clint found himself here often enough that he'd come to trust Danny and a few of the others on staff, to believe in the fact that they knew what they were doing and that they'd take care of him, take care of the people he cared about – Nat and Phil and all the rest of the Avengers, and now Bella. 

"All set?" Danny asked, making him blink, and he realized that his niece had finished her juice and pushed back the covers, preparing to climb down from the bed. 

"Hold it right there missy," he chastised gently, jokingly. "If I have to ride in the wheelchair, so do you." 

"Aw, Uncle Clint, no!" 

"Nuh-uh," he protested, shaking his head. "No way do you get to break the rules if I don't." 

"You always break the rules." 

Grinning, Clint turned to greet the young man who had slipped into the room, pushing a wheelchair in front of him. Puerto Rican, with tanned skin, a wide, mischievous smile, and glinting, coffee-colored eyes, the kid was in his mid-twenties and dressed in pale green scrubs, Danny's favorite intern and in truth, Clint's too. 

"Javie!" he cheered, jumping forward and scooping the short, skinny nurse into a hug, nearly swallowing him up, a gesture that was half honest delight and half proving to Bella that this was one of the good guys. Javier yelped, laughed, slapped at Clint's chest as he caught the kid around the neck, scrubbed playfully at his hair before releasing him. 

"Jerk," he huffed with a smile, straightening his shirt. "You ok? Danny ordered a chair." 

"Not for me," he answered, oddly proud that he could say that this time. Turning, he reached back a hand, helped Bella hop down as she watched them interestedly. "This is my niece Isobelle. She needs a ride down to x-ray." 

"Hi Isobelle," he said, sticking out his hand, his left hand even though he was a rightie. No wonder he was Danny's favorite, if he'd spotted a bum wrist that quick. "My name's Javier, but you can call me Javie if you want." 

"Hi," she mumbled. 

"Well, hop in princesa," he smiled, bowing and sweeping an arm gallantly. "Your chariot awaits." 

Quirking her mouth, she looked him up and down but he must have passed inspection because she lowered herself into the chair, tucking her hands into her lap. It wasn't more or less than Clint had expected, not with what she'd been through, but he hoped with a little time, maybe a few sessions with Dr. Tyler, the caution and the hesitance and the suspicion in her heart could be eased. 

"No wheelies this time Javie," Clint managed to say as they started down the hallway. "You nearly wrecked us last time." 

The warning only served as a suggestion to prompt exactly that, but his niece's giggles were worth it.

**AVAVA**

Phil was exhausted.

It wasn't from staying up all night – that was nothing to him – but the emotion of it all, the fear when Clint had panicked and bolted, the surprise and the sadness when they realized who the little girl on their doorstep was and what had happened to her, the aching pain and confusion of finding Clint awake on the couch standing vigil over his niece as best he knew how... 

It was draining. 

He wasn't good with this kind of thing, not with kids and not with abuse and not with the emotion, but he thought that perhaps he hadn't done too badly. 

He hadn't frozen up when Clint had snuggled in underneath his arm, had managed to coerce him into some sleep of his own, hadn't fled the room when he'd been caught stroking his fingers through Clint's hair. 

At least not immediately anyway. 

It wasn't like he'd meant to, but with the archer curled up in his lap, warm and clingy and wearing a younger, more vulnerable expression on his face than he ever did when he was awake, he hadn't been able to help himself. He'd had passive daydreams about things like that - sunny afternoons spent in each other's company just relaxing together, enjoying the physical closeness and the emotional quiet – but he didn't want to look into it too much. 

A part of him wondered if that was Clint's move, wanted it to be. 

But he knew very well that he could be projecting. 

It didn't matter. 

This whole thing had obviously shaken him up and had thinking himself in circles; strange, dizzying circles. 

Having returned to his suite after directing Daniella towards Isobelle's room, he ran himself through a cold shower, scrubbing down roughly in order to clear his head, get himself to focus. By the time he'd shaved and dressed in a pair of slacks and a light, casual button-down, he felt a little better, but he was still unsure of what to do next. 

That wasn't a feeling he was used to. 

He considered engaging with Jarvis, starting to look for Barney Barton, just so that he would have something to do, something to occupy his mind that would be helpful to Clint in some way, but the archer's words from the night before came echoing back on him, the threat and the fear in Clint's voice when he'd talked about his brother. 

Perhaps best not to get involved just yet, while old hurts were still suddenly fresh and new. 

So what could he do? 

His job, he supposed. 

Wisest course of action. 

Heading down to the common floor, he was pleased to find that the entire team had gathered in the kitchen, grouped around the island enjoying massive stacks of Steve's famous chocolate chip pancakes. 

"Agent!" Tony called cheerfully, saluting him with a fork. "About time you joined us. Get caught up with your paperwork." 

"For someone who has still to submit their after-action report you're awfully chipper Stark," Phil dead-panned. 

Tony scoffed, waved the scolding off. 

"You'll get your precious report, don't worry," he garbled around a bite of pancake. "And what's not to be happy about? New York is still standing and we just got an update from J – Clint's niece is gonna be a-ok!" 

Arching an eyebrow, Phil glanced quickly around the table, noting the relieved, boldly honest smiles on the rest of the team's faces before turning to Natasha. 

"Clint gave Daniella the go to update us after Stark sent up his fiftieth question," she said with a roll of her eyes, though a bit of fondness had leaked into her tone as she regarded the genius, whose signature goatee was sticky with maple syrup. 

It was obvious that he was concerned, and Phil had no doubt that if he were to consult Jarvis himself he would find that the man had been badgering the medical staff all night long with questions, suggestions, and demands that the little girl receive the best care possible. 

"They just got out of X-ray," she continued, and Phil eased himself down onto a stool with the sense of a man waiting for bad news. "She's got a broken wrist, but it's not bad. Hairline fracture, clean break. Daniella says four to six weeks in a cast and she'll be good to go. No lasting damage." 

"Lucky," Bruce mumbled across the table, and Phil had to agree. 

Given that she'd broken it at least nine days ago and she'd been traveling cross-country ever since, she was in remarkably good shape for a child. Who knows what she'd had to do to get to New York from Iowa. 

"Everything else is minor," Natasha said, watching him carefully as she sipped her favorite English breakfast tea from a china cup. "Food, rest, lots of TLC." 

"Clint will take care of that," he said automatically, remembering the way the man looked at the little girl, the way he held her and the way his voice softened, rounded out with a Midwest country accent when he called her darling. 

"Of course he will," Steve agreed, placing a tray in front of Coulson loaded down with two plates of pancakes, two more heaped with bacon and sliced melon. "But nothing says we can't help." 

"Steve's feeling a little guilty," Tony elaborated as Phil stared in confusion at the massive breakfast in front of him, complete with flatware, a bottle of orange juice and a thermos of coffee. "He made the kid cry yesterday." 

"Shut up," Steve muttered, blushing furiously and turning back to the stove. 

Ah. 

So that was it. 

Steve hadn't forgotten his penchant for skipping breakfast, just expected him to play delivery boy so he could hide from Clint's niece. 

Captain America, embarrassed by a barely-teen-aged girl. 

Imagine that. 

"Don’t worry about it Captain," he reassured, getting to his feet and balancing the tray over his forearms. "Clint and Isobelle are both a little spooked I think – bit of a shock for both of them. Probably best if we all keep a low profile, let them come to us when they're ready." 

Steve, Bruce, and Tony all nodded, apparently satisfied with that plan of action, but Natasha's face was carefully calm and controlled. 

"That's fine Phil," she agreed, "But you and I both know Clint. He'll lock that girl away in an ivory tower and go mopey death-rogue on us in a heartbeat if we don't keep him grounded. At least one of us needs to keep ahold of his leash for a while. I'm happy to help, but you've already got a grip on him after last night. Might as well keep it." 

"And what exactly do you suggest Agent Romanov?" he asked flatly, giving her his best Unamused Look #6. 

"I suggest you start with breakfast Agent Coulson," she replied airily, and thank god the rest of them were used to the strange coded banter between members of Strike Team Delta by now, because that was a little on the nose. 

She was getting bolder, which meant that she was beginning to run out of patience. 

Hell to pay for everyone if this little dance between himself and Clint didn't make the jump from the box-waltz to the tango before she got fed up. 

As he made his careful way back to the elevators, Phil considered the possibility of having her sent on a three month mission to Bangladesh. Ops there always managed to go awry, take longer than they should and cancel out any and all communications. That would solve his problems for a time, but he'd likely have to go into hiding for a while once she got back. 

Either that or sacrifice his entire tie collection to satisfy her ire. 

' _Radical solutions_ ,' he thought as he stepped out of the elevator and made his way down the hall, past a staff member painting over the hole Clint had punched in the drywall. 

No, he would wait it out, see what came of it all. 

Nodding to the medical staff as he passed, he turned and backed carefully through the curtain around Isobelle's room so as not to unbalance his burden, calling a quiet greeting as he entered. Clint answered, another quiet, distracted _hey boss_ , and when he got himself safely turned round again he was met with another poignant yet oddly adorable scene. 

Isobelle was propped up in the giant, white hospital bed, hair damp and curling and skin scrubbed up pink and clean. The bath should have improved the way she looked but it only seemed to accentuate everything that was still wrong - the deep bruising around her eye and across her cheekbone, the swollen, scabbed lower lip, the thin vulnerability of her child's body swamped in one of her uncle's purple t-shirts. Clint was leaned over her side, decorating the white cast that encased her right arm from palm to elbow with felt tip markers. Phil stepped closer, tilted his head to get a better look, and found his archer replicating tiny symbols of each of his teammates – the Captain's Shield, Iron Man's helmet, the red hour glass that Natasha sometimes used to sign her messages. There were purple arrows and a tiny Mjolnir, and for some reason, a little yellow duck wearing sunglasses and a tie. 

He waited until Clint had capped the marker in his hand before clearing his throat. 

"Hey," he blinked, like he was surprised to see Phil standing there and didn't realize that he'd greeted him only just a minute ago. Then his eyes dropped to the tray in Phil's hands and he himself was essentially forgotten in favor of coffee and bacon. "You didn't have to do that." 

"Steve was making breakfast for the team," Phil said. "Thought you and Isobelle might like some." 

"Definitely!" Clint declared, tucking the tray over the girl's lap and putting a fork into her good hand. "Hungry Bella Bella? Steve makes awesome pancakes!" 

The girl looked at the spread before her greedily but didn't make a move to eat, instead flicking glances at him until he backed away guiltily, moved toward the couch to collect Clint's empty mug and thermos from the night before. He heard her whisper but couldn't make the words out, decided to determinedly ignore the way his ears burned. 

"That's my boss, Phil," he head Clint say as he stood up, turned back to face them. "I told you about him remember? Phil C..." 

"Coulson," the little girl nodded sagely, looking him up and down while her fingers idely traced the duck her uncle had drawn onto her cast. "I remember." 

"Hello Isobelle," he said awkwardly. "Is... is there anything else I can get you? Steve's pancakes are fantastic but if you'd like something else..." 

"No thank you sir," she said, and it was formal and quiet and too-polite and it made his chest feel a little tight the way she ducked her head and wouldn't meet his eyes. 

Clint frowned, his eyes filling up with hurt as he reached out and gently stroked his niece's hair, and Phil decided it was time to make his excuses, give them a little privacy. 

"Well if you change your mind let me know," he said, turning the mugs in his hands. "It's no trouble. If either of you need anything." 

Clint finally looked at him then, blinking again and this time something on his face shifted, like he was seeing something entirely different than he had just a second before. Swallowing, unwilling to guess at what that was, Phil gave him a firm nod and made to leave, only just catching Clint's murmured words as he ducked out again. 

"Thanks Phil."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG have you guys actually seen the Avenger duckies?
> 
> http://36.media.tumblr.com/0d9a1f4aff826bd5423571592460f0bf/tumblr_my6nvwmBa01rmqnb5o4_500.jpg
> 
> Not mine, but so cute!!
> 
> Review me!!


	6. Chapter 6

_Could be worse._

He had to keep telling himself that. 

_Could be worse._

The break wasn't bad, he knew enough about X-rays and broken bones by now that he could see that for himself when Danny threw the images up against the light board. Bella's cheek was only bruised, her forearm just barely fractured, and she'd been smart enough to splint it those first few days, so it was already on its way to healing when Danny wrapped it up in mesh and plaster. The doctor had offered his niece purple, a color she kept on hand just for Clint, but the little girl had declined and asked if he would decorate it instead. 

He'd agreed of course, but it had sent him careening back into a tailspin of memories while Danny carefully helped Bella work her way through the shower, washing away the muck and grime of three days' travel Clint didn't even want to contemplate. Feeling useless, he'd waited on Bella's hospital bed, calling down to Stark's weird tower-wide room service for a pack of felt-tip markers and remembering all the afternoons he'd spent out at the farm, sprawled out on the floor with the tiny toddler, scribbling on butcher's paper with fat, waxy crayons while Shelley baked in the kitchen. 

Was pointless – those days were long gone and he'd never get them back, but if he could make even half a home for Bella that her mother had... 

Well, maybe it would be enough. 

God knew the kid deserved it. 

By the time Danny got her cleaned and combed and dressed in one of Clint's shirts, tucked back into bed on a slow drip to finish rehydrating her, Clint had managed to pull himself together, back from the edge of shaky emotion that he'd been hovering on ever since he'd woken up with his head in Phil Coulson's lap. 

Yeah, he probably had more important things he should be focusing on. 

Talking about his teammates helped, telling Bella a little something about each one of them as he inked tiny symbols onto her cast. She recognized some of them, mostly Natasha, Phil, and Cap, but the others he'd only met after they'd lost contact, so he got to weave a few good stories about Tony and Bruce and Thor without the truth to hinder his playful exaggerations. He'd just put the finishing touches on his own purple arrows and capped his marker when she finally piped up. 

"Matching X-rays," she said quietly, her gaze floating across the room to linger on the pictures clipped to the light. 

"Never did want you to take after me," he murmured, and he managed half a melancholy grin even though he nearly choked on the idea of it. 

That she might go through something even remotely close to what he'd been through... 

"Who else?" 

Well... 

Shit. 

Kid had a point. 

Between him and his brother he was gonna come out on top nearly every time. 

Not that that was saying much, so he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead instead of saying anything at all. 

That used to be one of the nice things about Bella. She was fairly quiet, didn't feel the need to fill up space with girly drama talk or gossip. Oh she talked plenty, but only when she actually had something to say. She was smart and liked to chatter excitedly about her advanced science classes, loved softball and could rattle off trivia and statistics about the sport with the biggest die-hard fan, but this quiet was different. It was unsure and a little scared, a little nervous, and he couldn't blame her but it still sucked to see. 

The full possibility of the ramifications of his brother's abuse hit him like a wrecking ball when Phil stepped into the room. This was the man he trusted more than anyone else on the planet, the man he felt safer with than he ever had in his life, and yet Bella immediately withdrew, her thin, underfed body going tense and tight as she tried to curl up and make herself small. She barely spoke, could hardly manage a whisper, kept her eyes down and even trembled a little when Phil spoke to her. 

More like him than she realized then. 

But hey, he'd gotten past his issues right? 

She could too. 

All it would take was a safe, stable environment, some love, people who cared about her and would never, _ever_ hurt her... 

He could do that. 

He'd already started right? 

Gotten her a bath and medical care and now Phil had hand delivered hot stacks of Steve's famous chocolate chip pancakes, and no, he didn't have time to think about that either. 

Anyway, it was hardly the first time Phil had brought him something to eat in the hospital. 

"Good?" he asked and Bella nodded, silent this time because her mouth was stuffed full, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. 

She'd plowed through two of the plate sized pancakes and half the melon and Clint was more than happy to let her have as much of the bacon as she wanted. It was good to see her fill her belly, and frankly he wasn't sure he wanted to hear how bad those nine days were between Barney abandoning her and her appearance on the Avengers' doorstep. How she'd gotten halfway across the country, how she'd fed herself... If she wanted to tell him he'd listen, of course, but Dr. Tyler would be far better equipped to help her through it than he would. 

Him, he'd just be tempted to grab his bow and go hunting. 

Finishing off the last of his coffee he sat back and watched her push away the breakfast tray with her good hand, lay it over her belly and flop back with a huff. 

"Full?" 

"Yup." 

Stalling a moment, she nibbled at her lip, clearly debating something in her head, and Clint let her to it. It would be a damn long time before he felt up to pressing her, scolding her or telling her no. 

"Uncle Clint? What... what happens now?" 

Heaving a sigh of his own he scrubbed a hand through his hair, unilling to lie to her either. 

"I don't know Bella Bella," he said, leaning forward to take her chin in his hands when she immediately went pale and blank-eyed. "Hey. _Hey_. I don't know what happens next darlin.' But no matter what happens, I'm gonna take care of you. I promise." 

She didn't look like she believed him. She'd refocused when he prodded but she wouldn't meet his eyes, even though he was cradling her face in his palms, gently stroking her bruised cheekbone with his thumb. He was wracking his brain for a way to reassure her when she spoke up again, mumbling at her knees. 

"I can live with you?" 

"Yeah, you're stuck with me sweetheart," he replied, forcing a grin even though the question nearly broke his heart. "You're just gonna have to put up living with dorky Uncle Clint." 

"At the farm?" 

Clint paused, frowned. 

He had no desire whatsoever to go back to the Barton farm and it didn't sound like she necessarily did either, but it _had_ been her home, the only place that held good memories of her mother... 

"What do you think about staying here in New York?" he asked carefully. "At least for a little while." 

She didn't answer right away but that was all right – at least she looked like she was actually considering the thing. he'd rather that than her breaking down in tears later because he hadn't taken her home. 

"K," she determined finally, nodding her head. "It's not... it's not very nice anymore anyway." 

And yup, that _did_ break his heart. 

Gathering her up in his arms, he hugged her tight, resting his chin on her head. 

"We can go back out there and get your stuff ok? Bring it here." 

"It's just a couple clothes. We weren't there very long. I didn't know we were leavin' the last place and..." 

And she didn't have a fucking thing to her name. 

"That's ok," he said, letting her go so he could wink at her. "I happen to know a couple of people who would _love_ to spoil you rotten." 

It didn't have the effect he'd hoped it would. 

Instead of smiling, perking up even a little bit she drew in on herself, pulled her knees up to her chest and looked away. 

"They're gonna love you Bella Bella," he said, guessing what bothered her without much effort. "They won't mind having you around." 

For a long time she didn't respond, and when she did it wasn't what he wanted to hear. 

"Uncle Clint? Can... can I have a mirror?" 

"Aw darlin' no," he breathed, pulling her back into his arms and holding her tight, pressing his cheek to her hair. If he had to squeeze his eyes shut against a sudden sting that was his own business. "Not right now, ok? You need to get better, and you know how tired that makes you. Let's talk to Danny first, get you out of here. Then later, if you want..." 

"Promise?" 

"I promise."

**AVAVA**

The afternoon found Phil on one of the couches near the windows of the Avengers' common floor, reading through a stack of after-action reports, red pen in hand. Very rarely did he bring paperwork outside of the office he kept in his own suite, but, like the rest of the team, something in him was reluctant to go far, to be... unavailable. After delivering breakfast to Isobelle's hospital suite he had been oddly ill-at-ease, had done some pacing and then changed into something even more informal, desirous of the comfort of well-fitted jeans and a worn t-shirt. His reappearance in the Avengers' living room, dressed in civvies and socks had garnered a few strange looks, but the others were clearly just as much at odds.

Cap had settled on the other end of Phil's couch with a drawing pad, sketching the buildings outside, but his hand moved over the paper jerkily, pausing often instead of making the smooth, delicate arcs it normally did. Tony had collapsed on the floor in front of the coffee table, a tool box open beside him, little bits of metal scattered about, but he was clearly distracted, sighing and huffing and tossing wrenches with loud clanks without accomplishing anything but nearly driving Phil mad. Bruce had taken up explaining a reality cooking show to Thor in an effort to keep himself centered - Chopped by the look of it – the volume down low as they spoke rather dully, with little animation or excitement. The thunder god was clearly making efforts to honor the strange mood that hung over them, restricting his voice to a low rumble instead of his typical boom. 

And Natasha, well, Natasha was perched into the corner of the second couch closest to him, her feet tucked up beneath her and a StarkPad in her lap, but it went untouched. She had fallen into that uncomfortable, preternatural stillness that still gave Phil the shivers, even after all these years, her eyes bright and unfocused and far away. 

She was waiting, just like the rest of them. 

She was simply a little bit better at it. 

Making one last note on Stark's report, almost as sloppy as Clint's usually were – Phil got to his feet, stretched, felt the discs in his spine pop. There was an uncomfortable energy tickling at his nerves, and he was about to suggest a round of sparring to Natasha when the elevator chimed quietly down the hallway, a gentle warning from Jarvis. 

"Agent Barton is on his way down sir," he said in hushed tones. 

"Down?' Tony muttered in confusion, frowning as his hands froze over the tiny power cell he was building on the coffee table. "What did he..." Shaking his head, he waved off the question. "Nevermind. Thanks buddy." 

Two seconds later the elevator dinged and the doors swung open and a heavy-eyed Clint emerged, his shoulders slumped and his whole posture screaming exhaustion. He was looking down at his feet as he came walking wobbly into the living room and maybe it was for the best, because for the most part the lot of them were doing a comically terrible job of pretending to do anything but stare at him intently. Coming to a stop he managed to drag his gaze up and over them, but it was distant, blank, and after blinking once he walked away again without saying a word. Shifting, clearly unsure, the Avengers turned to him as a single unit, eyebrows cocked in question, and Phil didn't think he had ever felt the weight of his leadership as much as he did in that moment. 

A jerk of Natasha's chin got him moving, up and off the couch and trailing quietly after the archer, who he found sitting at the long, narrow dining table with a bottle of water clutched between his hands in front of him. 

"Sit rep Barton," he said, not a command but close enough to be familiar, comforting. 

"She's upstairs," he said, still staring straight ahead with that blank, far away gaze, even as Phil pulled out a chair beside him. "Taking a nap. Danny cleared her till Thursday." 

Aware that that wasn't all, that Clint would keep going out of habit if nothing else, Phil stayed silent. 

Heaving a sigh, Clint scrubbed his hands roughly through his hair before dropping his face into his palms and groaning loudly. 

"Fucking Barney," he hissed, all venom and disappointment and old hurt. "Never thought he'd... but I should'a known better right? He's a god damn Barton." 

"Do we need to run through your self-affirmation exercises again?" 

Clint snorted, half scoff, half chuckle, slouching back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. 

" _No_ ," he insisted petulantly, tapping his feet under the table and affecting a pout. 

It had been a few years but they both remembered the eight month period Phil had spent forcing him through a gamut of confidence building activities and mantras, using good old-fashioned conditioning and non-stop, consistent praise on him to cut through the haze of doubt and self-deprecation that ate away at his subconscious. It had been a rough year for both of them but worth every second, and Phil had been immensely proud of how far the archer had come, the issues he'd gotten past. 

The implications of what it meant to have to go back to that might hurt like hell, but he'd do it in a heartbeat if Clint asked him to. 

He'd even force it on him, like he had the last time, if he thought it was necessary. 

The playful way he bumped his knee against Phil's said maybe he was ok for now. 

"She'll be alright," he said, more to himself than anything, but he didn't sound so miserable, so defeated anymore. "Danny says she's ok, mostly just run down, underweight." 

"Nothing we're not prepared to handle," he said, and Clint blinked at him, blushed a little as a small, surprised smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The inclusion, the 'we' seemed to really strike him, and it made a comfortable warmth swell up inside Phil's chest as Clint ducked his head bashfully. 

"Could definitely use the help," he admitted before sending him a look that was a little bit shy. "Too much of a kid to do a good job raising one." 

"I highly doubt that Agent Barton." 

Clint frowned, shook his head. 

"No, it's just... Bella's... different, ok?" he stumbled, and then he was twisting his water bottle in his hands and shifting and looking unsure. "She's not... it doesn’t matter. She's just been through so much shit you know, losing her mom and... and I don't know if I can make up for all that." 

"It was never _about_ making up for the past," Phil heard himself say, and he hadn't really meant to but he didn't think the phrasing of it was lost on either of them. "We can't change that. All you can do is set her up for the best future you can. And hey, with a bunch of superheroes on hand, how hard can _that_ be?" 

"You shouldn't jinx stuff like that." 

Neither he nor Clint startled when Stark appeared in the kitchen, just rolled their eyes when he crossed around behind them to stick his head in the fridge. As it was, Phil thought they were probably both grateful for the interruption – things were suddenly a little heavy and a little warm in the small space between them, and Phil pushed his chair back just a little to get some breathing room. Suddenly he felt nearly as tired as Clint looked and was tempted to suggest a shared nap, only because he knew both of them slept better after a long day when the other was watching their back. 

Right. 

_Only_. 

"Right," Clint said, clearing his throat and this time Phil did jolt a little, wondered what had just shown on his face to make Clint pink up like that. "So hey, um, Stark... it's cool if..." 

"Legolas, if you even try to finish that sentence the way I think you're going to, I'll personally replace every graphite arrow you own with rubber ones," the genius threatened, emerging from the fridge with a blender-bottle full of green glop in his hand. "Seriously, after all this time, do you really have to ask? I thought we were friends." 

To Stark's credit he actually _did_ look a little hurt, and it warmed Phil's heart, not because he hadn't gotten over his dislike of the PR-disaster engineer, but because it meant that here was one more person who cared about his asset. 

Clint huffed a little chuckle, his mouth quirking as he dropped his eyes to the table. 

"Yeah," he admitted, "Kind of a dick move huh?" 

Tony frowned, shrugged it off. 

"Hey, I get it. Listen, if she needs anything..." 

"Right now, just a little quiet," the arched replied. "She doesn't... It just takes a little while for her to warm up to people. Was thinking maybe we could do a movie night, something quiet where the focus isn't on her..." 

"I can rig that," Tony nodded. "Thor and Steve are still working their way through Disney and Pixar; we've got plenty left to pick from. Eight o'clock? She likes pizza right?" 

"Course. Straight pepperoni – kid's weird like that." 

"A girl after Cap's own heart," Tony grinned, whipping out his phone and tapping away, no doubt routing an order through Jarvis. "I'll make sure everybody's there." 

"Thanks Tony." 

He meant it for more than just the pizzas, but Tony just grinned, brushed him off, and that made sense because the two of them didn't have the same relationship that he and Clint did. It was lighter, less intimate, built on a mutual love of coffee and practical jokes instead of missions and crash-landings and shots fired in the rain. Pushing to his feet, Clint yawned widely and stretched his arms over his head, and Phil resolutely kept his gaze off the strip of skin revealed when his shirt rode up, force himself to hold Clint's gaze instead. 

"Think I'm gonna crash for a few hours too," he said and Phil nodded, biting down on the renewed urge to offer to join the man. 

"If you need anything..." he began. 

Clint watched him a moment, bit his lip. 

"Wake me up at six?" he asked finally. 

"Of course," he agreed, and then, because he knew Clint would toss and turn otherwise. "Get some sleep specialist." 

"Thanks boss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep the victims, their friends, and family of the Orlando shooting in your thoughts and prayers, as well as all the LGBTQ+ community. This is a terrifying time in the US when nonsensical hatred and discrimination result in so much violence and irreparable damage.


	7. Chapter 7

Bella was still asleep when he'd gotten back to his floor, hadn't yet woken up when, several hours later, a chime from his phone roused Clint from his own heavy nap. It was a text from Coulson, six on the dot as promised, a simple _Up and at it Specialist_ that put a doofy little grin on his face. It was a familiar phrase, one he was used to waking up to in safehouses, bunks, tents all over the world, and he'd heard it said in tones that ranged from quiet fury to aching weariness, frustration to something almost fond. 

Tough to gauge when you were only reading it, but if Clint chose to hear it in that more gentle, coaxing voice as he texted back, it was nobody's business but his own. 

Peeking into the guest room on his way to the kitchen, he's pleased to see that his niece is still snuggled down in the pillows, face smooth and body still in undisturbed slumber. He wouldn't blame her for having nightmares, for having a case of what he called 'the twitches' - pain induced tremors that plague you even when you're unconscious. She's been ill-used, not only by his brother, and he's terrified to know what she's been through in the last week, travelling cross-country hurt and frightened and alone. The only thing that stops his hands from curling into fists is seeing her here, safe. 

If he lingers for a while, watches her chest rise and fall easily, well, that's his business too. 

Once he's got the coffee pot going he sits down at the kitchen island with a notebook and pen, starts scribbling notes. It's not something he does often, but when he doesn't have anyone around to talk to, no one to chatter at, it helps him sort his thoughts. He's got two separate pages going right now, things he needs to do. The first is more pressing, more important, all the things that need to be done before he can get Bella sorted. 

_Room?_

_Clothes?_

_Stuff?_

It's not a very detailed list, but he's a grown man, ok? He's not exactly an expert on teenage girls; he has no idea what Bella is going to need or want or like. He knows what he _wants_ to give her – a home, safety, stability – but she's gonna have to help him with the more practical day-to-day stuff. 

The other list, well, those are his plans for his brother, and it's much more explicit. 

_Find Barney._

_Punch Barney._

_Get custody from Barney._

Clint freezes, everything going quiet and hazy as he narrows in on his own handwriting, pen anxiously circling that last line. 

Futz. 

He'd do it, he knows he'd do it. If he can actually find his brother he will. As far as Clint's concerned, Barney's lost the right to be Bella's legal guardian, and if he has to take him to court he will. As her godfather Clint has little legal say in Bella's life, if he has any at all – it will take his brother's signature down on paper to change that. And if he tries to get stubborn, tries to get cute, well, it won't be hard to prove he's an unfit parent. Judges today are a little less tolerant of child abuse and neglect than they were when Clint was a kid. 

Folding the second list in half, Clint sticks it into the pocket of the sweats he's wearing, going back to the first. It's a more pleasant prospect to consider, and as he sketches out plans to turn the office he never uses into a room for the teenager, something in his chest loosens up a bit. It's easier to breathe somehow, knowing this is real, that he's making it permanent. He feels lighter, happier than he has in years because she's here, and even if he'd pushed it down, locked it up in a box and put it away, he'd missed her. 

He doesn't realize he's tapping his pen, singing softly to himself until Bella says his name, quiet and uncertain and a little wobbly. When he lifts his head he finds her standing at the edge of the hallway, holding on to the corner of the wall as though it's the only thing keeping her up. His t-shirt is huge on her, makes her look small and pale and fragile, and she's got her cast strung up neatly in a sling, holding her arm snug against her chest. Barefoot, wide-eyed, and bruised, she looks much younger than her fourteen years. 

"Hey Bella Bella," he says gently, holding out his hand and gesturing her forward. Ghosting across the floor, she tucks herself in against his side, turns into his chest as he wraps his arm around her. "How you feeling?" 

"Little tired," she mumbles, rubbing her eyes with her good hand. "Ok." 

"That's the painkillers," he says, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Your arm hurt at all?" 

"No." 

"Good. Danny said you should take a some more medicine later on, before you go to sleep so it doesn't wake you up." 

Bella just hums. 

Clint frowns, looks down at her, but she only stands there, holding on to his t-shirt over his ribs, fabric twisted in her small fist. She seems content just to be held, and that's probably the case – Clint doubts she got much affection from her father in the last few months. It's a good segway, kind of, if he knew how to say it, how to suggest it. 

Bad news is he doesn't, and it kind of sucks. 

The Avengers, they're his team now, his... his family. 

He wants them to be hers too. 

But that's probably moving way too fast – not even he's dumb enough to jump right into that. 

So... 

"So listen," he says quietly, and hopes that Bella's too out of it to hear how uncertain he is, how hesitant. "You remember Phil right? From this morning?" 

Bella turns on him with a look that's pure teenager, an unspoken _duh_ complete with 360 degree eye roll, and he's so relieved by it that he can't help but bark a laugh. 

"Ok, ok, I know – it was just this morning," he grins, pressing another kiss to her hair and getting up to pour her a glass of orange juice per Danny's instructions. "Do you remember Nat though?" 

"She... she saved you that one time?" she says slowly, looking to him for reassurance. 

"Yup, that's her," he nodded, handing her the glass and waiting until she sat back down at the table. "She's saved me lots of times now. But you remember how I told you that we were a team? How we work together to..." 

"Save the world," she nods. "Keep people safe." 

"Yeah." 

Clint frowns, bites his lip. 

"Bella what... what did your dad say, about the Avengers? About what I do?" 

For a minute she's silent, running her fingers around the rim of her glass, shoulders hunched, but then she straightens up and looks at him and her eyes are dry. 

"He lied." 

It tells him nothing and everything he needs to know. 

For just a minute he feels like absolute shit, goes right back to that place where he's thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and Barney's all he's got, that place where all he hears are criticisms and curses, threats and insults and everything he's done wrong, but Bella's looking at him like he's a hero and he's never felt the weight of that so much as he does in this moment, never felt so proud of who he's finally managed to become. 

"The Avengers, they're... I mean, they're good guys," she says slowly, and then she looks up at him and the cautious question is back in her voice. "Right?" 

"Yeah sweetheart," he agrees, blinking hard, his voice hoarse as he reaches across the table to brush her hair back from her face. "Yeah, we're... we’re the good guys. Anyway, they're kind of friends now too. You know how much I love Nat. I know she can maybe seem a little scary, and Tony can be crazy and annoying and loud and Cap's silly sometimes and doesn't get my jokes but..." 

He realizes he's babbling and feels himself blush, but she's still looking at him with huge, trusting eyes like he hung the moon and she'd follow him there on a whim, even if she was terrified doing it. 

That’s... 

That's a lot. 

"But they're good guys," he finishes. "They care about people." 

"They care about you?" 

Clint's throat goes tight and he slips of his stool, grabs her up in his arms and presses his face against her hair.

"Yeah. Yeah darlin,' they care about me. They care about you too, you know? They're worried about you." 

A shudder ripples through the little girl in his embrace and a sob tears out of her as she turns in his grip, buries her face in his chest and holds on tight. 

"They don't... even... know me," she hiccoughed. "They don't... know what... I..." 

"Hey, _hey_ ," he said sharply, heart falling as he pulls back, holds her by the shoulders and looks her in the eye. "What kinda talk is that little girl? Huh?" 

Scooping her up, he marches into the living room and hefts her up to sit on his shoulder, startling and confusing her into silence. There's a mirror on the wall behind the couch – Clint's not even really sure why it's there but at least Stark hadn't put it above the bed – and it's big enough that it reflects nearly all of them; him from the chest up, her feet dangling out of the frame. Her face is pale and streaked, she's shaky and clinging to his hair and his shoulders as best she can to keep her balance, and she staring at herself with an intensity that puts Clint's own to shame. 

She's tired and hurt and a little druggy from the painkillers, so he understands the emotional rollercoaster she's on. 

He knows it hurts. 

He knows she's afraid. 

Growing up with her mother's Mutant X gene... 

It hadn't been easy for her. 

Barney hadn't had a problem with it when his wife was alive. Shelley's traits were recessive – it hadn't affected any of them – but then Bella started to grow up and proved what she could do, changing her appearance in subtle little ways and then later, when she had more control, replicating the appearance of family, friends, and the television characters she liked. It wasn't much of a problem then either, even if the world overall wasn't particularly accepting of mutants – Barney called her _Mimic_ and Clint turned it into a game, Shelley loved her more than anyone in the world, quite possibly even her husband. 

Then Shelley died, and everything changed. 

Barney had said it once when Clint was there, one time during all those months that he'd stayed behind to make sure they were both ok. He'd been drunk, heartsick, angry, and Bella was looking more and more like her mother every day. It was all natural appearances, a young girl who took after her mother, but Barney had walked in on her mimicking her mother in a mirror, a desperate attempt to console herself, and he'd unleashed all the old hate he'd used to throw at Clint when they were kids. Sending Bella to her room, Clint had told him in no uncertain terms that those words would never leave his mouth again. 

Apparently the threat hadn't been enough. 

Clint didn't have to ask to know what it must have been like for her. He'd survived Barney himself, survived a world that looked down on him for being a drop-out carney hick. It wasn't hard to imagine the kinds of things people had said about her, the kinds of things she'd faced. Bella had always been a little sensitive about what she could do, the way she looked, which was what had prompted Clint's own nickname for her. Now, staring at her in the mirror, watching her stare at herself, he knew that all those fears and insecurities, all those things she'd heard were coming back again, echoing in her ears. 

"You've always been beautiful," he says quietly, watching her in the glass. Lowering her down to the floor, he crouches and pulls her in for a gentle hug, tucks his chin over her shoulder. "You always will be. No matter what you look like - you or your mom or anybody else – you'll always be my Bella Bella." 

Sniffling, she rubbed her eyes with her knuckles dropped her eyes to the floor, but eventually she nodded. Pressing a loud, smacking kiss to her cheek, Clint scooped her up again and started tickling her, pressing kisses all over her face and doing his best to lighten the mood, to hear her laugh. He needed that, maybe even as much as she did, even if he was smart enough to know that this wasn't over, that it would take a lot more than one little pep talk to convince her that the others didn't mind having her around, even _wanted_ her around. 

"I love you," he says in her ear. "You know that, right?" 

"I know Uncle Clint." 

"You know I _like_ you too though?" 

Bella screws up her face, shakes her head. 

"You're weird." 

Clint laughs, scrubs his hand over the top of her head. 

"Yeah, yeah. Just... the team's gonna like you to, ok? I promise. Think... think maybe you can give them a chance?" 

She doesn't answer, but he thinks he sees her nod.

**AVAVA**

Phil's afternoon and evening are long, longer than they have any right to be. He's caught up in the waiting, an anxiety that feels out of proportion to the situation, and knowing that makes him even more unsettled.

Clint and his niece are both here in the tower, together, safe, but for some reason it doesn't help. 

Sending the archer a wake-up text does, just a little. It's familiar, something easy and natural between them that's calming, even if it's a little silly. He feels very much the way he does when Clint or Natasha comes back from a mission without him, injured or ill, when he's stuck at their bedside in medbay with nothing at all to do but wait. It's the experience of being helpless, something he abhors, the need to do something, _anything_ nearly driving him back to pacing. 

Ridiculous. 

He sits himself down for another hour, gets some paperwork done. He'll have to go over it again later, make sure it's all neat and complete, but it distracts him well enough. He's set an alarm in his phone to let him know the earliest acceptable time for him to head down to the common floor for the night, and once he's brushed his teeth and decided against changing his clothes again, he emerges from the elevators just as Steve and Bruce are getting settled. They chatter easily as the others wander in, Thor and Natasha joining them as everyone begins to claim their customary seats, then Clint walks in with a tiny shadow clinging to his side and everyone quiets down. 

They don't fall silent – they're all too well trained for that – so it's subtle enough that the girl doesn't notice, but he's pretty sure that Clint does. The archer's hand tightens around hers and he smiles down at her, tugs her over to the couch, sweeps her up into his arms and topples backward, sinking into the cushions with a hearty _whump_. He's grinning but it's just a little forced, and Nat sends Phil a sharp look. Shaking his head minutely, he rolls out his shoulders, sends a clear message. 

_Relax._

Natasha settles back down into her armchair and Clint's saying something quiet, then turning to each of them in turn. 

"Bella, this is Bruce and Steve and Thor, and you know Phil and Natasha," he said, nodding around to each of them in turn. 

The Avengers all waved, sent bright, sunny grins in her direction, tried to stay quiet and small and as non-threatening as... well, ok, they kind of failed miserably at that bit. 

But it was the thought that counted right? 

Bella doesn't respond, at least to them. Tucking herself in beside her uncle, she presses herself against his shoulder and mumbles something none of them can hear, but Clint laughs and it's easier this time, less anxious. 

"Nah," he shrugs, throwing his arm over the back of the couch and pulling her close. "Told you so." 

Phil quirks an eyebrow and catches Clint's eye but all the man does is send him a wink. Phil feels himself flush and hopes the startled heat doesn't show in his cheeks, because Bella is peering out from around the curve of Clint's bicep and staring at him like she knows all his secrets. 

Which is just stupid, because she's a kid. 

And he's a spy for god's sake, a good one. 

He's spared further embarrassment of thought along those lines when Stark comes waltzing in, all loud noises and wide gestures – classic Tony – a stack of pizza boxes balanced in the crook of one arm. 

"Pizza's here!" he grinned, and his smile is huge and white and sharp and a little more slick than must be comfortable for Bella, because as he swans around the circle of couches distributing boxes to each of his teammates (two larges to Steve and three to Thor), she shrank back from him a little. Phil clears his throat when Stark leans in and gives him a look, flicking a meaningful glance at the girl as the he hands across a pie – Peruvian cherry peppers and spinach. Tony blinks, doesn't seem to get it, but by the time he's dropped off Nat's thin crust margherita and turns to Clint, he's tamed himself down. 

"Here you go Princess," he grins, handing over the last two pizzas with a dramatic bow, before turning to Bella. "And one for the lady." 

The joke and the cheeky wink that followed helped, or maybe it was the way Clint stuck his tongue out at Stark for the nickname. 

"And that's Tony," the archer said, handing her the relatively tiny personal-sized pepperoni that had been added to their usual order. 

"And this is Jarvis!" the engineer crowed, flopping onto the couch beside Cap and toasting the ceiling with a cheesy slice of pizza. "Lights down and que it up buddy!" 

"Very good sir," the AI's voice said quietly, and from the corner of his eye Phil saw Bella startle, eyes chasing the corners. 

Clint nudged her, grinned, and she huffed a sigh, tucked herself in against his side as Clint tucked into his (ugh, disgusting) Hawaiian pizza. Phil watched in the low light as the movie started, saw her mumble something to him and toy with the edge of the box in her lap. 

"Nope, everybody get's their own on movie night," the blonde says insistently, shaking his head. "Them's the rules. And don't even pretend you can't eat that whole thing little girl – I've seen you put away like, four hamburgers in one go." 

"That was at a tournament!" she yelped indignantly, flinching before going pink and small in the glow of Stark's giant flat screen. 

Clint blinks and swallows and hurt flashes briefly across his face before he smiles, rocks her shoulders and flicks open her pizza. It takes her a minute but she pulls a piece out, nibbles around the edge of the crust first as the opening refrain of Lilo and Stitch begins to play. 

Phil blinks, looks at Stark with begrudgingly impressed surprise. 

Genius and subtle. 

Every once in a while he actually _does_ shows it. 

Cute, not too heart-wrenchingly sad. Dead parents yeah, but what Disney movie doesn't have those? It's all off screen and at least the coping skills are good; the whole point of the thing being non-traditional family. 

As Phil looks around the living room, the men and women slouched comfortable and easy around a children's movie about a little blue alien that has a genuine smile on each of their faces, even Natasha's, he thinks maybe it fits.


	8. Chapter 8

Bella makes it nearly all the way through the movie before nodding off against his shoulder, belly full of pizza, warm and safe curled up beneath Clint's arm. He's not sure when exactly; he's distracted by the heart-panging message of Ohana being learned by the fuzzy blue alien on the screen, ignoring the way Phil keeps flicking quiet glances in his direction, and keeping half his attention on his niece all at the same time. Truth be told he only realizes she's fallen alseep when the lights on the TV flare and he sees the color of her hair lighten just a bit out the corner of his eye. 

She's never been able to hold a mimic in her sleep. 

A quick text to Daniella confirms that he should allow Bella as much natural sleep as she could get, so he doesn't bother waking her up for her evening check-in with the doctor. Instead he's instructed to bring her down in the morning, and to give her a dose of pain medication should she wake up again tonight. He waits until the movie ends before he carefully maneuvers out from under her, and no, it has nothing to do with the way Coulson's watching him in the dark, the way his eyes keep lighting on his face and his shoulders and his chest, heavy and warm like a thick quilt that makes him wanna switch seats and curl up in the empty place beside him. 

He's never done that before, but… he's thought about it. 

Come close, a few times. 

They've shared couches, even outside of emergencies, outside of necessity, and maybe this isn't the time to be thinking about what _could_ be but he thinks he might be forgiven for it. 

It's not lust, not all of it anyway. 

Not right now. 

Right now he just wants to be held, to be told that everything will be ok, to be given all the reassurance and support he's trying to give to Bella because as confident as he's forcing himself to be in front of her, in his heart, away from young eyes and ears, he's not. 

What the hell does he know about being a parent, or even a responsible adult? 

He certainly didn't have a great example to follow – not from his own parents _or_ his brother, and he hasn't held a 'real' job a day in his life. He doesn't have to pay rent or do his own taxes, has never made his own doctor's or dentist's appointments, and never made it past the fourth grade. 

Good luck helping out with ninth grade biology Barton. 

And that's only the half of it. 

The practical, the logistical he can figure out, fight his way through, but the rest, the emotional bits... 

He barely keeps his own head together some days. 

He might be coming from the same place as his niece – losing a mom, being abused and abandoned by his father – but he's not exactly a great example of how to deal. 

Long story short? 

He's terrified. 

No one says anything when he gets to his feet and carefully scoops his sleeping niece up into his arms, but he can feel them watching. Staring. It's mostly care, mostly concern, but he can feel the fascination too, the curiosity. It's that bit that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, that makes his spine stiffen. He's had plenty of making a spectacle of himself, that much he doesn't mind, but he'd do a hell of a lot of bad things to keep Bella out of the crossfire. 

He's being too sensitive, he knows that. Knows that Bella's mutant genes make it a touchy subject, for her and for him. He doesn't actually think that any of the Avengers would have a problem with it, but they're not the most subtle bunch. Hell, even Steve could end up putting his foot in his mouth just from lack of knowing what being a mutant means. He wants to protect her from that, as best he can, and he knows he'll probably end up overdoing it, but Phil had said we. 

If he can count on them, his friends, if he can count on _Phil_ for this, well he might not make a total mess of it. 

"Thanks for this guys," he says, and his voice is low and gruff and hoarse, but it might be the most damn honest he's ever been with them before. 

They all nod, murmur in the darkened living room, words he can't make out but it's reassurance and affirmation and feels like a promise, and maybe it isn't but he'll take what he can get right now. Anything, whatever they'll give him, whatever he can sneak or steal or sweet talk his way. 

Doesn't mean he's not startled, surprised, maybe even a little bit spooked when Phil asks him if he needs help. 

It shouldn't affect him the way it does, shouldn't jumpstart his heart in his chest like he's been given a good zap with a car battery. Shouldn't make him blush like a kid, but it does. He bites his lip, nods shyly, says _yes please_ , and not a single damn person in the living room mentions the fact that Jarvis could have handled the elevator buttons for him, opened the doors. Phil does it all without comment, watches Clint in silence and he can't meet his gaze, but from the corner of his eye he can tell that there's something soft around the corners of the other man's mouth, something easy that tells him Phil isn't assessing him, that he's not silently forming a plan of attack. 

Somehow that's calming, makes Clint feel more like they're having a moment and less like he's a problem to be solved. 

A quiet ' _thanks boss_ ' is all that passes between them, the only words Clint can find as he stands at Phil's side in his entryway, looking down at the plush grey carpet. Phil nods and he thinks he feels the man's hand light on his elbow, but he's jumpy and restless and feels like he needs to run from something, and as much as he doesn't want it to be Coulson, he's all there is for the moment. Without another word, without a glance or a gesture, he turns and carries Bella back to his room, tucks her into his massive, king-sized bed and pulls the fluffy duvet up snug around her shoulders. He caves, bends to weakness and brushes her long, loose hair back from her pale face, presses a kiss lightly to her forehead before leaving her. 

He isn't expecting Coulson to still be there when he re-emerges from the hallway. He'd stopped off at the linen cupboard (and why Tony'd given him a linen cupboard he had no idea), grabbing a pillow, sheet, and afghan to tide him over on the couch, and nearly tripped over his own feet when he steps back into the living room to find the older man still standing where he'd left him. He looks... calm, soft around the edges, and Clint is struck by the sight of him for more reasons than one. 

His hands are tucked into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans, his shoulders loose and relaxed in a charcoal-colored sweater, and those thick-framed glasses that Clint loves and hates by equal measures make his eyes so deep and sharp and intense he can't hold their gaze. 

All in all he just wants a damned cuddle, and really, Clint thinks he deserves it but he can't... he won't beg for it. 

Dropping his arm load onto the end of the couch, he jerks his head toward the kitchen, tosses him a questioning look. 

"Think I'm gonna have a cup of coffee," he says, low and quiet. "Won't be sleeping any time soon. Want one?" 

"If you don't mind the company." 

Clint huffs a melancholy sort of laugh and turns toward the kitchen. 

"Never mind your company boss," he murmurs. 

He doesn't know if Phil hears him, doesn't know if he means him too, but really he just doesn't want to be alone. By the time he gets the coffee maker set up and found a pair of clean mugs in the cabinet, Phil's sitting at the island with his arms lightly crossed, elbows resting on the countertop as he watches Clint move around the kitchen. It's a quiet moment, the only sound the sputtering of the percolator, but it's like any other they've shared over the years and he doesn't feel any need to break it. 

Coulson though, Coulson does, because once they've both poured a fragrant cup of french roast and doctored it to their liking, he clears his throat and sits up straight in a gesture Clint's come to know well. 

He's about to say something he thinks Clint won't like. 

"I know this is personal," he begins, careful, cautious. "And I know sometimes you... prefer to work alone. But Clint I'd like to help, if I can." 

For a second he's frozen, stunned, and then he's shaking his head and chuckling, half amused and half guilty. 

"Not that bad anymore am I?" he asks, head ducked as he rubs the back of his neck. Coulson shrugs casually and offers him that signature semi-smile, that quirk at the corner of his mouth that makes Clint die to kiss him there. "Don't worry boss, I know when I'm out of my element. I'm gonna be looking for all the help I can get." 

Sighing, he looks off down the hall toward his bedroom where his niece is sleeping. 

"Don't wanna mess this one up you know? Never wanted kids cause they scared the shit out of me. Hell that's half of what turned me off of women. I mean, I flirt, but... Spent nearly my whole life thinking I was the world's greatest fuck-up; to think what I could do to a kid..." 

Clint starts when Phil's hand covers his around his coffee mug, warm and rough and perfect where it presses his fingers firm, and he bites back the sudden need to sob. He hadn't meant to say half of that, hadn't realized how true it was until the words had fallen out of his mouth. So much of his life was tangled up in fear and poor self-image that half the time he didn't even realize it, but here he is, spilling all his sins one more time to a man he's completely gone on. 

"You're more than that," Coulson says, his thumb brushing over Clint's knuckles. "You _care_ Clint. That's more important than all the other bits, believe me." 

Clint blinks, lifts his eyes. 

Coulson never talks about his family or his childhood – Clint doesn't even know if he has any family left. Outside of the Avengers anyway, and once again Clint feels like he's been hit in the chest by a Mac truck. The Avengers _are_ a family, _his_ family, _Coulson's_ family, and they'll be Bella's too soon enough. 

"Would you... Clint, would you let me do something for you?" 

_Everything._

He manages not to say it, but he wants to. He wants to ask, wants to plead, wants to confess, but he swallows it all down knowing that's he's just feeling vulnerable right now. He's gone years keeping his shit under wraps, pining silently after this man, this first _truly good_ man he's ever known, and he's done that for a reason. 

Natasha calls him a coward, calls him silly, tells him it's all unfounded fear, but he can't bear the thought of losing what he already has on the chance he might – _might_ – get more. 

Coulson, _Phil_ , must take his silence and his pained, puppy-dog eyes as acquiescence, because he tightens his grip on Clint's hand, arm stretched out across the island, and wets his lips, his one and only rarely-seen tell. 

"Let me find Barney." 

Clint's heart thuds in his chest and his body flashes hot, his brain shorting out for half a minute. He knows what Phil thinks of Barney, suspects the kinds of things he'd like to do to his brother. He's seen the way his eyes go cold and still when he talks about his past, about the plethora of men who've hurt and abandoned and abused him. He doesn't know what this means, doesn't know why Phil's asking for this, and for just a minute, just a breath in time, he's fearful. 

But this is Phil Coulson, and the fear cannot last. 

"Bella needs you," he says, taking his hand back like he knows what had gone through Clint's mind, like he'd felt him flinch, and hell, maybe he had. "And I think _you_ need to take care of her right now too. I want to help you do that Clint." 

Tapping his fingers against his empty mug, Phil opens his mouth a few times, shakes his head and stands. Crossing around behind Clint, he puts his mug in the sink before lighting his hand on Clint's shoulder, squeezing briefly before letting go. 

"Let me look for your brother, so you can focus on Bella," he says quietly. "I'll let you know as soon as I find him, and you can decide where we go from there." 

"Yeah that..." Clint tries, his voice hoarse and gritty as his throat tries to close up on him and his eyes start to burn, tears threatening hard and fast. "That'd mean a lot, Coulson. Thanks." 

Coulson nods and turns toward the door, their night drawing to an end. Clint scrambles to his feet, reluctant to see him go, trailing him toward the door unsure of what to say. When they reach it Coulson turns, faces him, trails his eyes over him in that way he does that makes Clint feel naked, stripped bare. 

"Ask me this time ok?" he says, and Clint tilts his head, feels the request all the way down to the soles of his feet. "Please? If there's anything you need Clint, anything, just..." 

"Can I have a hug?" 

He blurts it without thought or planning and nearly slaps his hands over his mouth once the words are out. He's wanted it all night, needed it, but he'd never imagined doing this, never imagined actually asking. He can feel his cheeks burning, wants to run, to hide, but instead he babbles like an idiot, words dropping off his tongue like pouring stones out of a glass. 

"I mean... just... Fuck Phil can you just hug me? It's been the shittiest day and I feel like I'm falling apart and I just..." 

It sounds like begging and once again he's on the edge of sobbing and it's all too much, but before he can choke it all back and apologize, pull his mask back together Phil's stepping in close and slowly wrapping his arms around Clint's waist, tugging him in until they're pressed together head to toe. He's warm and solid and _real_ in Clint's space, gentle and patient and unquestioning, and before Clint's brain can even process what's happened his body gets with the program. His arms go around Phil's shoulders and he pulls him in even closer, holds him too tight as he ducks his head and buries his face in the curve of the older man's throat and gasps for the air he can't get into his lungs. 

He doesn't know how long they stand there, doesn't know when Phil starts stroking through his hair, over the nape of his neck and down the length of his spine. All he knows is that this is probably the most perfect fucking hug he's ever had and it makes him feel like maybe he _can_ do this, that maybe it won't all go horribly wrong. Another time, maybe in another world, the night would have ended with a kiss or a declaration, but in this world it's more simple than that. Phil doesn't let go until Clint pulls back, squeezes his elbow when Clint thanks him and walks out the door, goes back to his own suite after reassuring him one more time that he's there, whatever Clint or Bella needs. 

It's perfect, and it's enough, and it means the damn world. 

More will come, more promises, more offerings – silent support from Natasha and loud, expensive help from Tony – and it will be hard for Clint to accept, even harder for Bella. She's a Barton after all, and her mutant genes make it even more difficult for her to believe that she's worth the time and the attention, but he hopes that together, with the help, he can eventually convince her that she is. 

If one man could make Clint believe it, Bella stands no chance against an entire _team_ of superheroes. 

It will be a long, hard road to travel, but if the look on her face when a fuzzy, stuffed, blue alien with a ribbon around its neck is delivered to her the next day, complete with tag signed by every one of the Avengers, it's something that's totally doable.


	9. Chapter 9

Phil's kind of happy, and he kind of hates himself for it. 

After all, there is a little girl upstairs who's been abused both physically and emotionally by her father, and while she may finally be safe now with her uncle and the Avengers to care for her, he knows it will likely be a long and difficult road to getting her back on her feet. He remembers what Clint was like all those years ago when he first came in to SHIELD, how much time and effort he'd had to put in to convincing the archer that he truly had found a stable place in the world, people he could trust. 

He hopes for Bella's sake that her recovery will be easier, that her life hasn't been as bad. 

He hopes the same for Clint. The man obviously loves his niece dearly and has been extremely shaken by her sudden appearance, her condition. It must surely bring up unpleasant memories, draw miserable parallels to his own childhood, and Phil fears that in the long run it's going to be a pretty big hit for Cint to absorb. The more quickly and successfully they can bring Bella back to the happy, healthy teenager she should be the better things will turn out for everyone. 

He thinks the stuffed animal is a good place to start. 

As he places the order through Jarvis he hopes it's not too childish, but given that the girl has nothing but the clothes on her back he doesn't think the gesture will go amiss. He knows Clint is smart enough to have picked up on the message of the movie they'd watched together and suspects that reiterating it to the teen is going to be a recurring theme in the coming months. Acceptance, found families, unconditional love – they're all things she probably needs to hear and see and feel a little more, and if anyone understands those things it's this tower full of crazy misfits brought together by fate and bound together by unexplainable affection. 

Or maybe not so unexplainable. 

Apparently even Stark has his moments. 

Sending a quick pm to each of the Avengers, Phil is encouraged by their positive responses to being asked to sign the tag he means to affix to Bella's new Stitch doll. As a welcome home gesture it may be a bit premature but it's simple and sweet and he thinks she'll appreciate it. He suspects she's not nearly as skittish as Clint had been when they'd first met, and he thinks a few days will be enough for her to get her bearings, to get her feet back under her and start exploring, start finding her voice. 

At least he hopes so. 

He means to help in any way he can, even if it means tracking down Clint's miserable excuse of a brother. If he hadn't cared for the man before he thinks he might hate him now. To strike a child, to break their arm and split their face, to abandon them completely forcing them to make their way across the country alone in a desperate attempt to find a long-lost relative... 

There's no excuse. 

So he'll help. 

He'll find the brother and when he does he'll keep his word and let Clint decide what he wants to do about the whole thing, no matter how much he'd like to handle matters himself and disappear Barney Barton once and for all. 

Clint deserves that, and really, he should probably count himself lucky that the archer is allowing him even that much. He'd been shocked when Clint had accepted his help, but that had nothing on how he'd felt when the man had asked him for a hug. He so very rarely asks for anything, especially the things he truly needs, and Phil is painfully aware of how touchy-feely the archer actually is, how touch starved he'd been right up until Natasha had joined them at SHIELD. He'd always seemed hesitant to show that same want for contact with Phil, though he accepted everything he was offered with an eager hunger that soothed any resultant hurt he might have felt. 

It was almost as if Clint feels he doesn't deserve that from Phil, and actually, knowing the man as well as he does, that makes a depressing amount of sense. 

And yet tonight he'd asked. 

He'd reached out, he'd... hell he'd nearly begged, and that more than anything had told Phil just how much he had truly needed that hug. 

Given the circumstances he thinks perhaps he may have enjoyed it too much. 

Clint was big and firm and warm in his arms, strong and vulnerable at the same time, hanging on tightly and tucked beneath his chin like a kitten that wanted to curl up against his chest, and damn if he didn't fit there. It was calming and reassuring and perfect – knowing that the archer was there, that he was ok, that he would continue to be ok – it was everything Phil could have hoped for and more. It lasted and lasted, the archer holding on so much longer than he'd expected, until he lost control and his hands began to wander, stroking through silky soft hair and down the long, smooth curve of Clint's spine, petting him with far too much tenderness, wanting to impart as much comfort as he could in those short minutes he'd been allowed and wondering if he was going to hell for loving every one of them. 

It's probably wrong, to be sitting here hours later, still floating on cloud nine because he's just gotten a long, warm, lingering hug from the man he's entirely gone on, to be taking so much more from it than Clint had known he'd been giving, but he can't help himself. 

Well obviously he can't help himself, if he's still sitting here at his desk with this stupid smile lingering around the corners of his mouth, Jarvis routing alarms through his phone to let him know when the stuffed animal arrives and when all of the Avengers have contributed their John Hancock to the tag. He's got time, time to get this under control, to button it away and present a reasonably acceptable front in the morning. 

Oh who is he kidding – he's had years to get over Clint Barton. 

He's begun to suspect by now that's it's not ever going to happen.

**AVAVA**

He's serving his turn on breakfast duty alongside Natasha the next morning when Clint and Bella arrive to the table. They're surprisingly early, so much so that none of the other Avengers have yet to appear, and given that Clint's habit is to linger in bed on mornings like this he suspects that they've just come in from medical. The archer is dressed in pale grey sweats and a black SHIELD t-shirt, purple house shoes on his bare feet, and he's got an arm slung around his niece's shoulders like he's worried she'll disappear if he lets go.

Christ she looks so young. 

She's tiny for her age, a fourteen that looks closer to ten, and Phil wonders how the hell any of them had possibly thought she was a grown woman back in the shawarma shop, watching her through Jarvis' projections. It doesn't help that she's swamped by her uncle's hoodie, the fabric hanging all the way down to her knees, dark purple color making her look that much paler. Clean and fresh-faced, her hair twisted into two neat pigtails and a familiar blue alien tucked beneath her arm, she sets off every protective instinct Phil's got and his kneading of his famous pineapple-coconut scones actually falters enough that both Clint and Natasha catch it. 

"Morning Clint," Natasha says calmly, covering for him while trodding heavily on his foot behind the counter. "Good morning Isobelle." 

The little girl startles a bit and immediately looks to her uncle for reassurance but manages a perfectly acceptable 'hello' when he grins down at her and pulls out a stool for her at the massive breakfast bar. Phil's gotten his act together in the meantime, toweled the dough off his hands and doctored Clint a mug of coffee in time to bring it over so he doesn't have to leave her side. 

"Thanks Phil." 

He says it quietly, just a murmur, but he's staring at Phil with those impossible kaleidoscope eyes of his, all that intensity laser-focused on him, and he's said his name. It's gratitude, painfully heartfelt, and for far more than just the coffee. It's for the hug and for the stuffed animal and for the offer to find his brother, and maybe even for all the other times that he couldn't say it, and it makes Phil's heart trip double-time behind his ribs. 

"You're welcome," he says just as quietly, and he doesn't think he's ever meant the words more than he does in that moment. 

For a moment Clint just stares at him, licks his lips nervously and lightning fast, then steals a glance at his niece before darting in and wrapping him in a light, one-armed hug so quick Phil might've missed it but for the way the small of his back warms and tingles where Clint had held him. It stuns him long enough that he earns himself another sharp prodding from Natasha and he has the uncomfortable impression that Bella is watching him again, but at least it gets his mouth shut and his brain moving again. 

"Hungry Bella?" he asks, putting his hands back to work getting his scones shaped, sliced, and onto the baking sheet. He's shooting for normal and seems to pass, though to his own ears he sounds far too content. 

"Yes sir." 

Well. 

It's strong, it's sure, it's not flinching or shy in any way, but... 

"You can call me Phil, if you like," he says, surprised and strangely disgruntled by the honorific out of the little girl's mouth, but she just levels him with a calm, even stare and oh yes, he sees it now, the spark of a teenager in those eyes. 

"Uncle Clint calls you sir." 

Phil feels a bolt of electricity flash through him and Clint nearly chokes on a mouthful of coffee, the tips of his ears going bright red, and he's struck again by how viscerally he'd felt it a moment ago when the archer _had_ said his name. 

She's not wrong. 

"Your Uncle Clint can call me Phil if he likes as well," he says, realizing for the first time that he'd never explicitly invited that familiarity in all the years he'd known the man, hoping to hell that it's not a mistake he'll pay for now that this girl has so simply and neatly pointed it out. "I don't mind." 

Looking up at him from beneath his lashes, Clint catches his gaze, pink dusting his cheeks this time, and Phil is grateful that the ovens are behind him, that he has a minute to turn his back as he slides the scones into the heat. This is different, this is strange, this is _amazing,_ and are they.... 

Are they actually making _progress_ here? 

He doesn't have much chance to contemplate it because the Avengers slowly begin to totter in from wherever they've been – all rumpled in their own way whether from sleep or early morning yoga or a night spent working in the labs – and they all greet Bella hesitantly only to be met with stronger and firmer responses, as though the little girl has made the decision to be brave and is sticking to her resolve. He sees her uncle in her in those moments, burning brightly through the abuse heaped on them both by Barney Barton, and it very nearly takes his breath away. 

No one mentions the Stitch doll as they tuck in to breakfast, a veritable buffet of scones, fluffy scrambled eggs with crispy bacon, and Natasha's specialty – a sharp, citrusy fruit and yogurt dish served with granola. They don't mention the cast or ask about the doctor's, don't mention Bella's lack of clothes or belongings or really anything that draws attention to her sudden and rather heart-wrenching appearance. Instead it's like she's been there all along, perfectly welcome and entirely accepted, and once or twice Phil catches her with a far-away look on her face, once or twice sees her shrink against her uncle's side as though unsure of this development before she bites her lip and squares up her shoulders and addresses whatever comment's been leveraged at her. 

It's both saddening and incredible to see, and he finds himself feeling a warm, swelling sort of pride for this little girl bubbling up in his chest. 

As well as she does, as strong a face she presents, it's clear that all the attention, subtle as it is, has taken it's toll on her. As the Avengers slowly begin to trickle out, stacking dishes into the washer as they go, she visibly droops, sagging against her uncle's shoulder while still trying to pick at her nearly-empty plate. Clint smiles fondly as he wraps an arm around her shoulders, eases her back from the table, but Phil still sees her snatch one last scone off the platter as he scoops her up into a bridal carry. He's seen that before, feels a pang in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about her being left alone in an empty house, then making a terrifying trip cross country with no one to feed her but herself. 

She catches him watching but doesn't blush, just stares back with hot, dark, unrelenting eyes, and oh yes, she is a Barton. 

"They're good," she allows as Clint swings her up and around, and Phil smiles gently. 

"I'm glad you like them." 

"Yeah, you're scones are the best boss," the archer grins, and it's light and it's easy but he doesn't doubt for a minute that Clint's grasped the reality of this small act of hoarding. "We're gonna have a nap I think, then maybe do some online shopping." 

"Don't let Stark hear you say that," he replies, tossing Bella a wink for good measure and then feeling foolish for giving in to the spontaneous impulse. "Let me know if you need anything, ok? I'll be around. Bella, you can come find us if your uncle starts to annoy you too much – we all know how he is." 

The girl doesn't reply this time, just blinks at him like he looks as much of a hot mess as he feels, and god he still can't believe how much this child throws him off his game, _him,_ Agent Phil Coulson. 

But Clint's chuckling, smiling, smacking a kiss to the girl's temple before twirling her around in a few wide, looping circles and heading for the elevators. 

"Thanks Phil!" he calls back over his shoulder, and a shudder ripples down his spine. 

Dear lord, what monster has he created?


	10. Chapter 10

She doesn't trust it. 

It's hard to trust it. 

Uncle Clint, no. Him, of course she trusts. He's always been there, even when he couldn't be, writing her letters and sending her trinkets from all over the world, loving her more than even her own dad had loved her in the end. 

The rest of them though... 

They're his friends, she gets that. 

Natasha, she knows all about her, the famous Black Widow. But she's just Natasha when Uncle Clint talks about her, or Nat or sometimes Tash. 

The rest of them, they're the Avengers, saving the world, and she's seen them on TV and heard about them on the radio, but... 

She's knows her dad lies ok? 

She knows that stuff he said about Uncle Clint leaving them behind for the Avengers isn't true. 

But he'd said something else, the one time. 

_They're no better than anyone else. They're no better than me. He's no better than me._

Maybe that's what's scaring her. 

Cause her dad, her dad wasn't great. 

Most times her dad wasn't even good. 

He was loud, and rough, and he drank too much and he hates her because she looks like mama. 

Could the Avengers really be like him? 

Tucked up in Uncle Clint's bed, she plays with the ears on her Stitch doll, turns the card over and over in her hand, tracing all the names with the tips of her fingers. 

Steve. 

Tony. 

Bruce. 

Thor, with a little lightning bolt beside it. 

She's tired, and her cheek hurts and the medicine for her broken arm makes her body feel heavy and her head feel swimmy, but she knows she's safe cause she can hear Uncle Clint in the living room humming to himself as he waxes his bow. 

She can't help it if she falls asleep.

**AVAVA**

Bella crashes for almost five hours, waking up in the early afternoon and wobbling out to find him in the kitchen putting together a turkey sandwich. Bacon, cheddar cheese, spicy brown mustard and avocado, it's her favorite lunch and he deliberately turns around to finagle his ingredients back into the fridge, hoping that giving her his back will tempt her into snitching it for herself.

See, Clint knows hunger. 

He's knows what it's like to have to scrounge for yourself at such a young age, to have to scrap for your next meal. He's been guilty of hoarding food away himself, still keeps stashes of MRE's and power bars hidden in safehouse cupboards all over the world, and he knows exactly what it's like to have someone suddenly try to feed you. 

You don't trust it. 

You _resent_ it. 

It's stupid, and it's counter-productive, but it makes a messed-up kind of sense and luckily Clint was taught how to handle it by the best; one Phillip J Coulson who took him on as an asset and instead of bombarding him with nutritionists and protein shakes and watching him eat like a creep just made enough good, wholesome food for two and turned away long enough for Clint to snatch his share and scarf it down unsupervised. 

So yeah. 

He's got a second sandwich built, sitting on the top shelf of the fridge, with cranberry relish in place of mustard because he prefers sweet over spicy, and by the time he turns around again to join Bella at the breakfast bar, half of hers is already gone. 

He doesn't comment on it – why ruin a good thing – just pushes a glass of milk and a dill pickle toward her on a napkin and starts stuffing his own face. 

There's something bothering her, he can tell. 

Given the situation it's understandable, but it doesn't help Clint to narrow it down. She could be worried about her dad, she could be pissed at her dad, she could be anxious about what's going to happen now or just logy and irritable from the pain and the medications meant to counter it. 

He doesn't really know how to ask. He's psyching himself up, freaking himself out, he knows that, but he doesn't know how to stop either. He's good at being an Uncle but he doesn't know how to be a dad, and he thinks that maybe he's thinking about trying too hard. 

Thinking too hard full stop, that's what Natasha would say, and if he's not careful she's going to catch him at it and take him to the mats as punishment. 

Not fair – he really is trying – but maybe that's the problem. 

The list in his pocket feels like it's burning a hole through his sweats, and as soon as Bella is focused on getting a messy bite of sandwich into her mouth he pulls it out, crumples it into a tight ball, and lobs it into the trash. 

He doesn't need a god damn list. 

"Show off," Bella mumbles around a full mouth, and it's so deadpan and casual and dry that Clint is taken by surprise, barks a laugh. 

"Yeah, yeah, Miss Fast-Pitch," he chuckles, getting to his feet and mussing her hair as he passes. "Like you don't show off whenever you get on the mound." 

"That's different," she mumbles, carrying her plate to the dish washer. "I practice." 

"So did I," he points out sensibly, thinking back to all those years at Carson's, countless hours shooting till his fingertips bled. "I hope you keep it up kiddo – you'll be playing for the big leagues before you know it." 

"I don't want to play ball," she sighs, jumping up onto a stool and kicking her feet as she watches Clint start the washer. "Not for real anyway. Just for fun." 

"What happened to your dream of being the first lady MLB player?" he asks, carefully neutral to mask his surprise. 

"Softball's better," she declares, "And nobody watches softball. Besides, ball players have to work to hard. They have to get up early to run and they have to live on busses and they can't eat pizza!" 

Clint laughs, stands up and gives her a hug, glad that she has good reasons to change her dream instead of bad ones, like a broken arm or a shitty dad. 

"Well, what _do_ you want to be when you grow up then?" 

"I like science," she says, and Clint has to stop himself from leaping up to clap his hand over her mouth, glancing up at the ceiling as though his menacing eyebrows will keep Jarvis from reporting back to his Sir. "We learned about botany in class last year – that was fun." 

"Plants huh?" Clint asks, a little stumped because how much could you actually do with plants? 

"Plants are cool," Bella explains, her hair growing just a little bit lighter, a little bit blonder as she starts in on a topic she clearly enjoys. "They can be food or poison or medicine, or just pretty. There's these plants in South America – they actually _eat_ bugs!" 

"Tony's probably got a couple of extra balconies around here somewhere," Clint suggests. "We should build you a greenhouse." 

"Oh. I..." 

_Crap._

Gifts. 

That's another thing you gotta be careful with when you've got a deprived kid on your hands, an abused kid. Gifts are rarely good; usually come with stipulations or as a half-hearted apology for inexcusable behaviors. 

Clint _knows_ what it's like being offered shiny, expensive things, has first-hand experience being loaded down with _stuff_ by one Tony Stark, who is only just now learning that his friendship has just as much value as his money. 

Awkward. 

But he thinks there's more to it than that. 

"Hey, listen to me for a minute ok?" he says, crouching down to look her in the eye, taking her good hand in his. "I want you to live here. With me, and the rest of the Avengers. I want you to stay. You can live here in New York with us, and have your own room, and go to school... is that something _you_ want? Cause it's ok if you don't." 

"I don't..." 

Tears well up in Bella's eyes and she pulls her hand out of Clint's grip to scrub at her cheeks, and she's shaking again but he doesn't know how else to do this, doesn't know how else to make her believe him, to start this new life without _starting_ it. 

"I want you to think about it ok?" he says quietly, pushing her hair back behind her ear. "Cause I gotta warn you, if you stay here with us you're gonna have a lot more aunts and uncles than just me. Thor's gonna start hugging you and Tony's gonna buy you too much stuff and Nat's probably gonna teach you how to fight..." 

_"Why..."_

"Just because," he says simply. "We're family. Kind of a big, messy, messed-up family, but... yeah. And I love you Bella Bella. They'd love you just because of that, but you're a great kid and they'll like you just as much on your own. If you wanna stick around and try it out a while, you'll see. If you don't we'll figure out something else. I promise." 

Bella doesn't answer him, not with words anyway. She just throws herself into his arms, hugs him as tight as she can. Clint hugs her back, breathes in the scent of her hair, which smells like _his_ shampoo. He needs to take her shopping – she's swamped in his sweatshirt and Natasha's stolen leggings. 

That can wait though. 

For now, he's got another idea. 

"Come on," he says, standing up and reaching down to take her hand. "Let's go check out our balcony, see what you can do with it."

**AVAVA**

It's a compromise, she knows it is.

She's smarter than she looks, and her Uncle Clint isn't nearly as subtle as he thinks he is. 

She's still uncomfortable with the idea of taking something, of putting her mark on a space here. This place, Stark Tower, it's a big deal. She remembers hearing about the genius Tony Stark on the TV even before he was Iron Man. He's someone Important, just like all the Avengers are, and who is she to live here with them? 

But her Uncle Clint is here, and _he's_ an Avenger, so maybe it would be ok? 

She doesn't know. 

Doesn't know how she feels about staying here, making a new place home. 

The old place isn't home anymore, the farm. It had fallen down so bad in the last couple years, it was barely a house any more. Her dad hadn't fixed the roof, or the leaky sink in the kitchen, and the water had rotted the boards until parts of the floor and the ceiling caved in or crumbled away, and the furniture was old and worn and broken and there was never any food, and the burnt-out lights didn't get changed so it was always darker than it should be. 

No, it had stopped being home long before her dad had left her there alone, all by herself with nothing. 

It had stopped being home when mama died. 

She knows she can't go back there. In her head she knows she can't go anywhere her dad is anymore. She doesn't trust him, not because she's mad, but because she's smart enough to know that he's not gonna stop drinking or hurting her, and that's hard. 

She still loves him. 

He's still her dad. 

She just... wishes he didn't hate her so much. 

Sniffing, Bella squares her shoulders and follows her uncle outside, onto the huge, open balcony off his living room. It feels like flying they're so high up, above all the other buildings and skyscrapers, and while she can see a couple other balconies hanging off the building over the edge of the safety rail, mostly all she can see is bright blue sky. 

There's real grass under her feet. She doesn't know how, but it's thick and green and soft, and it tickles her bare toes. She can _smell_ it, and it's such a relief after a week of fighting her way through the city to get here that she almost cries. 

She's done too much of that though. 

Instead she lays down flat on her back and stares up at the sky, watches fluffy white clouds pass. Uncle Clint flops down next to her and puts his arms behind his head, stays quiet, even though she can hear him thinking. They stay that way a while, until his phone chimes in his pocket and he sits up to read the message on the screen. 

"I gotta go talk to Nat for a minute," he says, shoving the phone back into his pocket. "Do you want to come, or do you want to stay here?" 

"Stay here," she says quietly, pushing up into a sitting position as well. 

"Ok. Don't disappear on me alright?" 

Bella nods as he presses a kiss to her forehead, then squints up at him when he clambers to his feet. 

He's kinda clumsy for a superhero. 

"If you need anything while I'm gone you can ask Jarvis ok? he says, and Bella nods because he's chewing his lip the way he does when he gets nervous. "I'll be right back." 

She doesn't look back at him when he goes. 

Mostly because she knows he's looking at _her._

Checking on her, over his shoulder, even as he heads through the living room and out the door. 

She doesn't want to make him worry. 

Besides, it's nice being alone for a minute. 

Everything's changed. 

She nearly falls asleep again a minute later. She moved to one of the big, cushioned lawn chairs on one side of the balcony, reclining back with her legs out in front of her, and the sun and the breeze feels so nice that she very nearly doesn't hear someone coming until they're already there. One knock on the door and it's opening, someone stepping inside who is _not_ Uncle Clint, and her heart thumps painfully against her ribs. 

"Hey Legolas!" 

Bella pulls up a mimic so fast she gets dizzy, but she knows Uncle Clint and what he looks like well enough to pull it off. He'd asked her once if hurt, changing to look like someone else, but she'd just shaken her head no. It's never hurt, feels almost like a balloon being blown up inside her, pushing herself up and out as her skin tingles and stretches. Whatever magic, whatever power that lets her change her body changes her clothes too, and she doesn't get it but she's glad cause it works. 

The cast on her arm doesn't go away, but grows and conforms to the shape of her arm as it turns into Uncle Clint's arm. His sweatshirt already fits, but the pants would rip if they didn't grow and turn to soft, stretchy cotton as her thighs swell. 

Her eyesight doesn't sharpen. 

She doesn't have any idea what Uncle Clint sees when he looks at the world. 

She doesn't understand the change, doesn't understand her mutation, her own body, but she doesn't care. 

It leaves her sitting there looking for all the world like Clint Barton, and Clint Barton will keep her safe, just like her mom had. 

"Hey Birdie," Tony Stark says, catching sight of her sitting on the balcony and trotting through the living room to join her. "Where's the sprout?" 

"Sleeping," she lies, because it's the first thing she thinks of and because she hopes it will make him go away, or at least lower his voice. 

He does that last part. 

He apparently refuses to do the first. 

"Good, kid looked like she needed it," he says. "Listen Pep's already got wind she's here – thought I'd give you a heads up." 

"What..." 

"Shopping," Stark says, waving one hand airily as he stares at the tablet in the other. "She's already planning something with the itsy-bitsy spider. If you want any part of that you might want to head them off at the pass." 

"Oh. Thanks." 

"No problem. Hey, you don't use the office I put in across from your room, right?" 

"I..." 

"Who are we kidding, of course you don't," Stark interrupts. "You haven't been in there since you moved in. Bad planning on my part – extra room, didn't know what to do with it... what's the baby bird's favorite color?" 

"B...Blue," she stammers, taken aback by the whirlwind that is this man, this Tony Stark. "I..." 

"Perfect. Knowing Pepper, tomorrow's going to be an all-day thing – that's plenty of time to get everything done. Thanks Locksley." 

He's already leaving. 

She's stunned, and has no idea what just happened, but he's already leaving. 

"Stark!" 

She doesn't know why she does it, doesn't know why she calls out to him to get him to stop. It's stupid, the name all kinds of wrong in her mouth, but she does it before she can stop herself, and now she... 

"It's really ok?" she asks, her voice too deep, not hers. "For me to... I mean, for her to stay?" 

Tony Stark frowns, and for all of a minute Bella panics, sure this is where she loses what little she has left, but then his face softens and he shakes his head. 

"I meant what I said Clint," he answers her softly. "She's family. She's welcome here." 

And then he's gone, leaving her alone to drop her mimic in shaky disbelief.


End file.
